Advancing to the Rear
by MandibleBones
Summary: Once upon a time, a wizard child got the jump on a giant snake, defeating the Dark Lord before he could be reborn. Then he spent a year trying to kill his Godfather, then learned he was innocent. This is still not that story. Sequel to Last Second Chance.
1. Days of Summer

**Author's Note:** This is a sequel to my earlier work, "The Last Second Chance," and uses that canon. I suggest reading it first. Go on, I'll wait. If Draco seems overly knowledgeable, you may have missed the fact that he's a time-traveler – having travelled back in time from just after the final battle at Hogwarts in J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Incidentally, the characters all belong to her, as does the setting, but you knew that already). Everything that happened in Deathly Hallows, excepting only the epilogue, happened before Draco's little Peggy Sue action changed the past. His knowledge is only knowledge of canon and limited by his viewpoint. So, with no further gilding the lily and no more ado, here is the next installment of A Slytherin at War: "Advancing to the Rear." - MB

**-o-o-o-**

_"Retreat? Hell! We're not retreating, we're just advancing in a different direction!"_  
><em>- Maj. Gen. Oliver Smith, United States Marine Corps<em>

**ADVANCING TO THE REAR**

Being the second book in the not-quite-critically acclaimed series,

**A SLYTHERIN AT WAR**

Preceded by THE LAST SECOND CHANCE

**STARRING**

Our Reluctant Hero, DRACO MALFOY  
>His Godfather, SEVERUS SNAPE<br>ASSORTED OTHER SLYTHERINS  
>HUFFLEPUFFS<br>RAVENCLAWS  
>AND EVEN GRYFFINDORS<p>

**Chapter 1: Days of Summer**

_**In Which Draco sums up the situation, secures his position with the aid of a few friends, generally plans for the future and is incredibly confused.**_

_"When both sides are convinced that they are about to lose, they are both right."_  
><em>– Murphy's Laws of Combat<em>

**-o-o-o-**

When last we left our intrepid hero – me, though I object to both "intrepid" and "hero" as sheer Gryffindor nonsense – he had been disowned by his father, Lucius Malfoy. Left to my own devices, I washed dishes in the Leaky Cauldron for a couple bowls of soup until not-yet-professor Lupin stumbled on me and managed to put me in contact with my Godfather.

Also, for the uninitiated, I had just completed my first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the second time, after traveling back in time through the good graces of the Room of Requirement just following the disastrous final battle at the end of my seventh year, where everyone I cared about beside my family died. This time, I've vowed, I will win this war my way – a Slytherin's way.

Despite my breaking down near to tears – alright, I'll admit, actually in tears – upon my reunion with my Godfather, I was actually rather content most of the summer. My Godfather – you may know him as Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts – had an extensive collection of books both magical and Muggle, and despite that blasted Sorting Hat's insistence that I was destined to be a Slytherin now and forever and never a Ravenclaw, I'd picked up some appreciation for book-learning during my NEWT year that I intended to use now.

Severus wasn't exactly the conversational sort, unless addressed, and spent most of the time in the downstairs potions lab, or reading in his comfortable armchair, his tiny Screech Owl, Lily, perched on his invariably-black robes and hooting contentedly. The Screech-owl, that is, not my Godfather. I'd taken to doing much of the same, and between my dog-eared, hand-me-down copy of Advanced Potion-Making (I had a bet with Granger, you see, and I intended to collect – especially as I could no longer afford the 1000 Galleons we'd initiatlly wagered) and a couple Muggle texts, June breezed softly into July.

So I was in my own chair, reading through Dave Macauley's The Way Things Work for the third or fourth time, trying to get a better grasp of Muggle technology, when the floo suddenly went off. This was an odd occurance – the only person who ever called on Severus was Headmaster Dumbledore, and he preferred his Patronus.

"Draco?" the fireplace asked. The voice was a bit hesitant, and thus took me a minute to place.

"Blaise?" I queried back, once I was pretty sure. "Is that you there?" The ember effigy of my housemate, Blaise Zabini, grinned.

"Got it in one, my fellow conspirator," he said. "Mind if I come through?" I gave my assent, and suddenly our living room had another occupant. A head taller than me, Blaise's complexion could best be described as that of toffee, if one were given to describing their male friends that way. Hell, Blaise probably did, given his subscription to Witch Weekly.

"Wotcher, Blaise," I greeted, having picked up the expression from a couple Muggle teens at the bookstore I now frequented. Blaise raised a perfectly-trimmed eyebrow.

"And good afternoon to you as well," he finally said. "Gone native, have you?" I looked down, and shrugged. Old Draco would likely never have been caught in blue jeans, but New Draco preferred not to spill potions ingredients on what few dress slacks he still had, and robes weren't exactly comfortable or inconspicuous in Muggle London's muggy, oppressively hot summer.

"I suppose," I drawled, letting him know I hadn't changed all that much in a month. Really, I hadn't. I mean, last time I'd still been sporting that unfortunate blond helmet through second year, but as has already been noted, that was first against the wall when the revolution came. Or at least it was as soon as I managed to find some paint thinner.

"And you?" I continued. "Keeping busy this summer?" Blaise shrugged, a mirror to my own, then subtly shifted position. My eyes went wide, and my wand was in my hand before I even thought, summoning my sword from across the room as Blaise drew his from a mokeskin pouch. I got my guard up in time, and his overhand blow clanged off my hasty block.

"Birthday present?" I asked, as my friend and erstwhile sparring partner broke into a grin. He nodded.

"Easy to conceal things," he grunted good-naturedly as we circled round the room, our blades in a high guard. He'd started to grow into his; I knew from experience I wouldn't get a growth spurt until just before third year, and still held mine two-handed, like a broadsword. "You, my friend, are out of practice," Blaise chided.

"That's because my house is not a gladatorial arena, Mr. Zabini," my Godfather intoned from the doorway to the basement, his wand held lazily in his hand as he scowled at the two of us. Blaise had the good grace to look abashed, though he kept his guard up.

"Sorry, Professor," he said, parrying a good thrust from me as he spoke. "Might Draco join me at mine, that we might get our sparring match out of your living room?" Blaise feared nothing, apparently. Had we been at school, my Godfather probably would have had him scrubbing cauldron bottoms in detention for his cheek. But we were not in school.

"If that is the best way for me to obtain a little peace and quiet, you may go," he said, waving his wand almost carelessly and levitating Blaise toward the floo. "Château Zabini," he added, as an afterthought, tossing powder across the room with a potions master's practiced precision before tossing my housemate in. "Going, Draco?" he added, the smirk that had recently replaced his customary sneer outright on his face.

"Of course," I grinned, tossing off a salute with my sword. I double-checked the wand at my belt and prepared to go through. Then I had a better idea. I mounted my broom – a Nimbus 2000 – held my sword out like a lance, and gestured for my Godfather to toss in some powder. He obliged me, and I shouted out "Château Zabini!" as I charged through.

Blaise attempted to meet me with an overhead strike, obviously under the impression that I'd be disorientated by the floo travel. The momentum from my broom and the floo, coupled with the cushioning charm we'd added to the practice swords last year to keep us from killing each other, laid my friend flat on his back. I did a little celebratory victory lap before landing next to him.

"Yield?" I asked cheekily, pointing my sword down at him. He groaned.

"Touché," he admitted, attempting to regain his breath. "And yield." He took a few minutes to stand up. "I can't believe you pulled that on me," he griped. I smirked, putting on my best Snape face.

"Says Mr. 'I haven't seen you in a month so I'm going to draw down on you within minutes of exiting your floo'," I snarked. "Besides, I think we've all learned a valuable lesson about floo safety," I added, unable to wipe the grin from my face.

"You are so getting resorted into Hufflepuff," he said, glaring down at me. I shrugged.

"Maybe we're just getting to familiar with each other's styles," I suggested. "We could get Seamus over here, or maybe Theo–" All humor left Blaise's face.

"Trust me, Draco," he said, grabbing my shoulders. "You don't want Theo, or Crabbe or Goyle, facing you armed right now." He dropped his hands to his sides, sighing. "Not as if they'd join us anyway." I wrinkled my nose.

"What do you mean?" I asked, suspecting the answer. Blaise sighed again.

"You got disowned," he said, "And the Notts, Crabbes and Goyles are heavily allied to the Malfoys," he added, unnecessarily. I grimaced. I should probably have expected it.

"And Seamus doesn't care because he's a half-blood and not tied into the politics yet," I finished for him. "So let's get him over here." I paused a minute. "What about Tracey and Daphne?" Blaise looked confused.

"What about them?" he asked. I spelled it out for him.

"The Greengrasses have always stayed neutral as far as these politics go, and Tracey's a half-blood herself," I said. Blaise shook his head.

"That's right, but I didn't think either of them could fight?" he thought. I was struck by a sudden image of a much older Tracey Davis, ironically at Blaise's side, as they followed Professor Slughorn in that desperate charge to reinforce the lines during the Battle of Hogwarts. I remembered watching Daphne take a Killing Curse to the chest, and feeling a momentary wonder how Astoria would react. I shook it all away.

"I bet they could pick it up quick if we gave them a chance," I said, not missing the look of concerned interest in Blaise's eyes. He walked over to the floo, shaking his head, muttering something about Hufflepuff and strange Muggle influences.

"Finnegan House," he called. "Seamus? You busy?" There was a short message from the floo before Blaise stepped back, letting a sandy-haired Irishman stumble through.

"Been living with those all my life, and still they throw me," he brogued. "Afternoon Blaise, Draco," he greeted. His eyes widened at the mess in Blaise's living room. "Did I miss the circus or something?" he asked. I grinned.

"Blaise and I hadn't seen each other in a month, and got a bit carried away," I said, then realized that sounded a little, well, not the direction I wanted to go with it. "We were dueling," I finished flatly. Seamus missed it, but I could see Blaise's eyes briefly cloud over with laughter before he caught control of himself.

We managed to drag Tracey through the floo to visit, but apparently Daphne was holidaying on the continent and unavailable. Still, four of us was better than three, and we managed to find out a little more about each others' strengths. Seamus wielded one of Blaise's spare swords like a cricket bat, and I resolved to find him a hammer or club or something if we continued this at school. Tracey, meanwhile, had a pair of long knives she'd inherited from a great-grandfather, and we were all thankful for the cushioning charm a few times after we realized we were leaving our close guard open.

The day passed beautifully, and I wondered, not for the first time, why I'd never bothered to make friends the first time around. This time, though, we would be not just friends but comrades-in-arms, and I worried already how I could make sure they survived the coming war.

**-o-o-o-**

If the summer passed quickly through reading, brewing potions with my Godfather and practicing swordplay with Blaise, Seamus and Tracey, it was clearly a good thing. The only downside was that I'd have to get my supplies sooner or later, and I was dreading the state of my meager savings after my unceremonious blasting from my family tree. Hogwarts was not exactly free to attend, tuition aside, and even though my Godfather sat me down and explained that the cost of my attendance had been paid as the ward of a teacher, I was still going to have to buy books and other things to help me last through the year.

A week before the end of August saw a stately Hogwarts owl soar through my Godfather's window.

"I'm not entirely sure why I can't just give you your letter myself," my Godfather griped, feeding the end of a sausage link to the grateful bird and tossing the cream-colored parchment to me. "It's not as if I work there and spend three quarters of my life in that drafty castle," he added, though he had a fond look in his eyes. I smirked, seeing right through his disguise, as I opened the letter informing me of my continued attendance at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Damn it, I'd forgotten about the Lockhart books. Ridiculous fraud.

"Godfather," I said, "We're going to have to go to Flourish and Blotts this year." I'd been hoping to avoid it, having found a copy of The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 2 on my Godfather's shelf. He raised an eyebrow.

"What could whoever they suckered into the Defense position possibly have assigned that you can't use from my library?" he wondered, gesturing to a shelf teeming with most of the more useful Defense Against the Dark Arts texts from the past thirty years. I sighed.

"The collected works of Gilderoy Lockhart, excepting only his autobiography, Magical Me," I groaned. "Useless prat that the man is, they're all still on the Daily Prophet's best-seller list and thus expensive." My Godfather sneered.

"I'll clear this with Professor Dumbledore," he barely managed to avoid spitting. "There has to be some allowance for alternatives or something. How else would the Weasleys manage to keep sending their infernal spawn to school?" He stepped over to the floo. "Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office!" The green flames leapt to sudden life as if kicked. "Albus," he said, much more quietly. "I'm coming through."

He was gone for only a few minutes before he returned, face paler than usual with barely-suppressed anger.

"Draco," he said. "I'm afraid you'll have to purchase the books." He stomped downstairs, and I could hear him breaking things in his lab. I strongly suspected he'd just found out about Lockhart. I poked my head down the stairwell.

"I'm going now," I said. "Maybe I can find something secondhand." A grunt of acknowledgement greeted my announcement, and I could hear Lily's confused hooting as she tried to calm my Godfather down. I strolled over to the floo, double-checking that I had both wand and money pouch. It would not do to be stranded at the Leaky Cauldron again. "Diagon Alley!" I announced, and stepped into the fire.

**-o-o-o-**

After exiting the Leaky Cauldron, I make a quick trek to Gringotts to gather coins from my increasingly-depleted Galleon supply before heading to Flourish and Blotts'. There weren't a lot of people there yet, which suited me fine. I may be forced to buy secondhand books, but I wasn't exactly interested in showcasing that just yet unless I needed to use the poor, abandoned child routine.

I couldn't find any secondhand Lockhart books, but I snuck a set upstairs with the rest of the used books, piled a little dust on them and switched the stickers from a relatively-new looking set of magical encyclopediae. After all, I might have to buy his books, but Salazar Slytherin would wake from his grave before I'd pay full price to that fraud.

I spent a little more time on that than I thought I would, so with a crowd gathering downstairs, I started to dig through some of the other previously-owned items upstairs. I found a much-annotated copy of A History of Magic which actually seemed to break down that subject into useful information, and it was actually affordable, so I added it to my little stack. I grabbed a copy of Goshawk's grade two spell book, since there were quite a few stacked there, and dug further back into the stacks, looking for buried treasure. I even found some.

By the time I came back out into the light, as it were, the store was packed with adoring fans anxious to see the world-class fraud. He was dragging Potter up with him – covered with floo powder though he was; I wondered where he'd come out since the Leaky Cauldron's floo was relatively clean – and I shot the Boy Who Lived a sympathetic grin. Fame was all well and good, but up there, Potter might as well have been a prop, and he looked like he hated it.

"Just these today, please," I said, passing up my by-now quite large stack of books up to a distracted-looking shopgirl. She started ringing them up, paying more attention to Lockhart's announcement that the school would be getting the real 'Magical Me' as a teacher, and I wondered for a moment whether she was still a Hogwarts student. Obviously not a Ravenclaw, though; as I recall, they'd poked holes in Lockhart's legend before even departing the train this year. And a Hufflepuff would put a little more care into her job, since she nearly rang up A History of Magic twice and missed one of the other books entirely.

I caught Molly Weasley looking at me with confusion as I bought the secondhand books, but studiously ignored her. Both our attentions were almost-immediately elsewhere, however, as we caught sight of what was almost – no, not almost, actually was – a full-on brawl between the Weasley patriarch and a tall man with blond hair and an aristocratic nose. I recognized him immediately.

"Arthur! Control yourself!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. "And you, Mr. Malfoy, shame on you as well!" With reluctance, they pulled apart.

"Here, girl, it's the best your father can afford," my father snarled, shoving a cauldron-full of books into the youngest Weasley's hands. He looked past the Weasleys to see me standing there, arms full of secondhand books. "Then again," he drawled, "at least you have a family." Leaving the redheads staring openmouthed, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

"Well, that could have gone better," I muttered. Potter and Granger, who had been standing back with a pair of Muggles who could only be the Grangers senior, joined the Weasleys awkwardly.

"Are you alright, Ginny?" Mrs. Weasley mothered. The youngest nodded, clearly embarrassed over something or other. "And you, dear?" she asked, and it took me a moment to realize she was addressing me. "Why did your father say such dreadful things to you?" she added. I shrugged.

"He disowned me in June," I admitted, to Mrs. Weasley's shocked gasp. "I've been living with my Godfather – you remember Professor Snape?" She nodded, looking unsure.

"Well, that's a comfort, at least," she finally said. "Having a young one around will do that man a world of good, haven't I always said so?" she mused.

"Of course you have, dear," Mr. Weasley agreed. Mrs. Weasley rounded on him as if just remembering he was there.

"And you! Arthur Weasley! Brawling in the street like a common... and in front of the Grangers, no less!" she upbraided him. "What an sterling example you're setting for the children! I know what that man said was horrid, but I thought I married a man with a certain sense of personal dignity! I hadn't realized..."

"Dad's done it now," one of the twins muttered, closer to me than to his mother. The other nodded.

"Let her get into full swing, he has," the other agreed. "Best thing to do?"

"Cut her off at the start," the first continued. "Distract her."

"Always works for us anyway," the other added. "Chin up, Slytherin," he said, clapping me on the back.

"If he's willing to just dump you out like that," the first said, "he's no family of yours anyway." The two twins walked away, gathering their pompous prefect brother and speaking conspiratorially in his ear, likely planning a rescue mission for their still-harried father.

I appreciated them crossing house lines like that; it wasn't often that happened between ours, especially between two families with histories as crossed as ours had. But I had more worries than my sudden lack of last name – I'd come to terms, as best I could, with my abandonment this summer. Occlumency helped. No, I was worried about what Lucius was doing in Flourish and Blotts' the day Hogwarts Letters came. I knew why he was in the Alley in the first place, since doubtless he still had to get rid of those dodgy poisons regardless of any changes I'd made to the timeline, but why the bookstore? And why would my father, who was nothing if not aristocratic, let himself be drawn into a scuffle? I couldn't place it, and it worried me all the way back to Spinner's End.

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Note, Continued:** In Deathly Hallows, Slughorn and Charlie Weasley lead the charge of all the remaining students' families and friends to reinforce the defenders of Hogwarts. I strongly suspect that, like Slughorn, many of the Slytherins who evacuated would have returned to turn the tide, especially survivors like Blaise or those from neutral families like Tracey or Daphne, who would be much more keen to join the battle once they had a decent chance of winning. Later on in the chapter: So, Harry ends up in Nocturne Alley, since regardless of what Draco's done, Harry's still never used the floo network, and yes, if you haven't yet guessed, Ginny's ended up with the diary again. I don't see where Draco would ever have learned of its existence, since Lucius clearly never told him, and neither Voldemort nor Dumbledore would have wanted the existence and subsequent destruction of a Horcrux to be common knowledge. Thus, there are some trials in store for young Ginevra, for which I might otherwise apologize. I won't, though, since Rowling's made it pretty clear that the ordeal with Tom, despite scarring her for life, made her grow up and stop treating life like a pretty fairytale. I have no room for pre-break Sansa Stark in my fanfic, so diary-bound she goes.


	2. On the Hogwarts Express Again

**Author's Note:** This fanfic uses the canon characters and setting from J.K. Rowling's work; obviously, I make no claim to them. Story notes are at the end. Up Ravenclaw!

**-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 2: On the Hogwarts Express... Again**

_**In which events happen on a train, as they often do each September 1st, the Sorting Hat sings again, and further consequences are explored.**_

"Teamwork is essential; it gives the enemy someone else to shoot at."  
>– Murphy's Laws of Combat<p>

**-o-o-o-**

September 1st came around again, as it invariably did each year, and I found myself on Platform 9 and ¾, waiting to board the Hogwarts Express. As my Godfather was rather unused to dragging a twelve-year-old to a train platform on the first day of school, we were running rather late. Thankfully, my backpack was already mostly packed, thanks to some judiciously-placed Undetectable Extension Charms last year, and we made it on the platform just behind the perennially-tardy Weasley clan.

"Hurry, Draco," my Godfather chided. "Do not miss the train. I shall see you at school." With a flourish of his batlike teaching robes, the left the platform before several returning students could perish from fright. Taking his advice, however, I ran to make the train, leaping aboard only to run smack into Theo Nott. He sneered, and I wondered where the cheerful quidditch commentator from last year had run off to and left us with this carbon copy of an older me.

"I should have known you'd be late," he said with a huff. "No proper family probably means no wake-up, am I right?" I studiously ignored him, pushing past him to try and find a compartment, preferably without people like him in it. "Lost your manners and your backbone along with your family, then?" he called out from behind me, and I nearly went for my wand before thinking better of it. I was not, after all, a Gryffindor. A sudden, strong hand clapping me on the back surprised me.

"He's out of order," a Scottish voice said, and I turned to see my second-least-favorite person at Hogwarts, Ernie MacMillan, standing there. "I still don't like you, Malfoy, but there are lines, and he's crossed them. I'm sorry to hear about your family troubles." I nodded.

"Thank you," I said, brusquely. "I'm off to find a cabin, though, and I doubt I'm welcome in yours." For a second, a flicker of sympathy flashed across his eyes, before he quashed it and inclined his head in mild agreement. I grimaced, and headed further up the train.

I passed Luna Lovegood, all alone in a compartment, and briefly entertained sitting with her before I decided I didn't have the patience to deal with her, and alienating one first-year in my life was pretty much my limit. I shook my head. I hadn't given much thought to Pansy Parkinson, sorted as she was into Hufflepuff, but if I could manage it this year, I realized she deserved an apology. I'd been a horrible person to her last year, and even if I couldn't look at her without seeing the spite-filled harpy I'd known and loved – well, shagged, but close enough – this version of the black-haired, pug-faced girl hadn't really done anything wrong.

I passed the usual Potter, Weasley and Granger compartment, and was actually happy to see Longbottom in with them. He'd saved our collective arses in the third-floor corridor last year, and a Slytherin doesn't forget something like that too quickly. Now, if only we could do something about his unfortunate lack of casting ability. Not for me. Not today.

I realized, as I passed another occupied compartment, that I was thinking in terms of strategic moves in who I might join, and while I knew that sort of compartmentalization would come in handy during this war – hell, it all but completely enabled me to be an effective Occlumens – I flashed back to a happy summer with Blaise, Tracey and Seamus, and suddenly felt guilty. I resolved to sit down in the next compartment with room in it, regardless of who was there. The worst that could happen was I could get stuck with Eloise Midgen, and I was pretty sure she wouldn't be sorted until next year. I never really paid much attention.

I turned into the next compartment and sat down across from a little first-year, and no, it wasn't Eloise Midgen. I buried a grimace quickly, however, since I was now alone in a compartment with Ginny Weasley, and had only to wait on her older brother's legendary temper to start trouble. Still, I thought, better to make new allies – and prevent too many future bat-bogey hexes.

"Mind if I sit here?" I asked. Ginny didn't look up from the black book in which she was writing, but she nodded. "I'm Draco Malf... just Draco," I said, lamely, not wanting to use my last name as I was pretty sure I wasn't entitled to it. She still didn't look up from the book.

"I know who you are," she said. "I saw you in Diagon Alley. Your father was an arse." I actually caught myself smiling a bit.

"He is, at that," I agreed. "But not my father, at the moment, since he disowned me." I got a grunt in response. Clearly I was interrupting her busy writing. "Do I get to ask your name, or should I just assume from the red hair that you're the littlest Weasley?" I asked, and I actually managed to get her to put down the book as she flushed angrily.

"Ginevra. Ginny," she said. "Do you have a problem with Weasleys?" she challenged, and I put up my hands defensively.

"Not in general," I said. "I was just trying to get you to join the conversation." She had the good grace – no idea where she learned it, if her family was any indication – to look embarrassed, and closed the book.

"It's just a diary," she admitted, defensively. "Sometimes I feel like he's the only one who understands, you know?" I thought back to my Godfather's much-loved copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ and my own notes in the margins of _The Way Things Work, _and nodded.

"I think I can relate to that," I admitted. I dragged out my heavy Muggle book, and moved across to the seat next to her. "See?" I pointed out notes on the simple machines, and we both laughed over Macauley's mammoths.

"My brother's friend Hermione would go nuts if she saw this," Ginny said. "Writing all over a book like that? She'd be completely mental." I smirked.

"Joke's on her then," I said. "This was Granger's Christmas present to me last year." We shared a look at that and lasted a moment before bursting out laughing. We spent much of the train trip comparing notes on the book, and when we'd tired of it, she brought out the Lockhart, and we started mocking the little moving image, poking it and watching it run. She said she thought he was too pretty to be true, and I said smiles and pretty faces weren't everything, but not to tell my friend Blaise.

"What's that about me?" the subject of our discussion said, poking his head in. I saw Tracey and Daphne behind him.

"Nothing at all," I lied, smiling. "Plenty of room," I added. "If that's okay with Ginny here," I backpedaled, having momentarily forgot my companion. She nodded, gesturing to the seat across from her. Blaise's overly-pretty face – I fully expected him to start wearing makeup by this time next year – lit up in a grin.

"Excellent!" he beamed. "Seamus and some Gryffindor took over our cabin and are yelling at each other about Quidditch and something called football, so we thought we'd come find you and seek sanctuary."

"Two birds, one stone. Definitely Slytherin thinking there," Tracey griped, pushing Blaise into the compartment. Daphne followed her, smiling sunnily as she usually did.

"Blaise Zabini, Tracey Davis, Daphne Greengrass, might I introduce Ginny Weasley," I gestured, overly pompous. I admit, I tried my best to sound like her brother Percy, but a wink toward the little Gryffindor-to-be spoiled the impression, I'm sure, and she giggled. Blaise bowed dramatically, Tracey smiled and shook her hand, and Daphne joined her giggling before staring out the window at the passing scenery.

We passed the next hour debating the various merits and flaws of our new Defense professor, and though I saw Potter walk past, do a double-take, make an amused smile and continue on, I didn't see hide nor hair of Ginny's older brother before it got dark.

"Time to get changed into robes, I suppose," Daphne said. "Shoo, Draco, Blaise." Blaise smirked.

"As you command, your majesty," he said, before Tracey pushed him out of the cabin the way he'd come in. I followed, the same amused smirk on my face. Down the hall, I saw Potter, Weasley and Longbottom, clearly in the same mess.

"Good summer, Potter?" I drawled. To my surprise, he nodded.

"Uncle Vernon made some business deal on my birthday and took them all to Majorca, and I got to stay with the Weasleys," he confirmed. That would explain it. "And 'Potter'? I thought we were still on first-name terms this year, Draco?" he queried, humor in his eyes. I grinned cheekily.

"First Quidditch game hasn't happened yet," I said. "I have to decide you're worthy of first-name privileges then," I added. Weasley was looking at the two of us like we'd each grown two heads.

"When'd you two get so chummy?" he grumbled. Potter clapped him on the shoulder.

"Come on, Ron, we're just talking trash. He knows we're going to cream Slytherin at Quidditch this year, so he's got to get his kicks in now, right?" Weasley smiled.

"I suppose you're right," he said. Excellent job diffusing the situation, Potter, I thought. Ten points to Gryffindor. And then everything exploded.

"We're done, boys," Tracey said, walking out with Daphne and Ginny into the trolleyway. I caught sight of Weasley's face getting progressively redder and all but shoved Blaise into the compartment.

"MALFOY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY SISTER!" he bellowed, pounding on the door. I whistled nonchalantly as I changed, observing the usual propriety, which left me unable to catch the inevitable grin on Blaise's face. The banging stopped about the same time as we finished getting changed, and then there was a loud thud. Longbottom opened the door.

"He'll come round," he said. "Remind me not to annoy Hermione," he added, pointing at Weasley's petrificused body.

"_Wingardium leviosa!_" Granger added, dragging her friend away with an apologetic grimace. I laughed a little bit, then turned to Ginny, worrying suddenly that I'd offend her by laughing at her brother. She didn't look angry, though, just suddenly unsure of herself.

"What's wrong, Red?" I asked her. She looked up at me, suddenly shy.

"You're all Slytherins?" she asked, very quietly. I smiled, nodding.

"Did we sound studious enough to be Ravenclaws?" Blaise snarked, earning an elbow to his gut from Tracey. Daphne moved over to Ginny, giving her a little hug.

"We don't bite," she said. Ginny shook her head quickly.

"Oh, no, I didn't mean that," she quickly said. "I just... I had fun. I wasn't expecting it." I couldn't help but be a little touched, and I remembered that she hadn't touched her diary since she put it down that first time. I hadn't even seen the little thing since then.

"Come on, Red," I said, breaking the suddenly awkward silence as the train ground to a halt in Hogsmeade. "You'll miss the boats. Just find the large, coarse man with the lantern," I added, trying to balance my distaste for Hagrid with the charitable things I knew she'd likely heard from her family.

The last thing I saw of her before she disappeared in a sea of first-years was her blazing hair.

**-o-o-o-**

"Your attention!" boomed the Headmaster, standing before the assembled masses, eyes twinkling madly. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts!" Cheers filled the Great Hall, and, caught up in the moment, I even joined in. "In just a few short minutes, we'll adjourn to the feast, but for now, please join me in welcoming the Hogwarts Class of 1999!"

The doors opened wide to show a crop of first-years looking completely awestruck. I saw a few faces I recognized among them, including Ginny and a dreamy-eyed blond who was obviously Luna Lovegood. As the hall clapped, McGonagall came and placed the ancient hat on the stool, leaving the firsties with an even more confused look on their face.

It made a sound like it was clearing its throat – which I've never understood, since it's a ruddy hat, isn't it? – and broke into song.

_"Through all the years I've sorted here,  
>all the faces that I've met,<br>one thing has become very clear:  
>you're blinded to the threat<br>of making house identity,  
>losing track of who you are<br>what's worse, worthy of pity  
>is that we have come so far<br>from where it was we started:  
>for it's said, when this all commenced<br>Hufflepuffs weren't just kind-hearted  
>but full of common sense.<br>Ravenclaws weren't merely brilliant  
>but had thoughts for themselves to spare<br>and Gryffindors, not just resilient  
>but kind and true and fair.<br>And though ambition in the den  
>of snakes will find a home,<br>the most respected Slytherins  
>for cunning and service were known.<br>So go ahead and put me on,  
>I'll sort and send you to your friends<br>But give some thought to what I've said  
>Or Hogwarts will face its end."<em>

Well, that was something new. Not that I'd been paying attention the first time around, what with being busy gloating over Potter's probable explusion, but I was pretty sure the hat hadn't started fearmongering until at least fourth year. The mildly disturbed look on Professor Dumbledore's face only confirmed my suspicion, even as McGonagall called "Creevey, Colin!" to be sorted into Gryffindor.

I ignored the hat, mostly, watching the rest of the students. The Slytherin table was divided, as I'd somewhat expected it to be. Nott and his flunkies – unfortunately, I'd thought Vince and Greg had been a little more loyal this time, but I was wrong – were at the other end, and the older students whose families were aligned with my father. My end was populated by sons and daughters of families too young to be political, like Marcus Flint and Millicent Bulstrode, half-bloods like Seamus and Tracey Davis, and a few from families generally considered neutral, like Blaise and Daphne. Most of us were ignoring the sorting almost entirely, except to clap whenever the hat called out "SLYTHERIN!" Even then, I watched the first-years quietly pushed to one end or the other.

Scowling, I turned my head to the other tables as the hat put Lovegood into Ravenclaw. I followed her with my gaze as she skipped over to her house table, where her new housemates looked skeptical but were clearly reserving judgement. Most of my year already had their heads buried in books, but a couple were furiously scribbling down notes regarding the sorting. I'd have to trade Anthony Goldstein a favor for the list, since I couldn't afford to simply buy it off them anymore.

I looked over at the Hufflepuffs and saw Pansy laughing with Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones; I was shocked to see her with genuine happiness on her face. Her smile faltered when she saw me looking at her, but she turned away and refused to let it get to her. Progress, I supposed. I met MacMillan's eyes, and it was clear he'd seen the exchange. He didn't quite glare, but he didn't quite smile, either. I'd not realized Hufflepuffs had such depth.

Uncomfortable under his gaze, I turned mine to the house of dunderheads – Gryffindor, that is. Apparently I'd spent too much time with my Godfather over the summer. Potter and Granger were furiously whispering to each other, probably discussing the hat's song, while Weasley looked longingly at his empty plate. Longbottom merely looked amused and unsure of his inclusion in the little group. Suddenly, at something the hat had said, all four heads snapped toward the front. I'd missed whoever was sorted, so I followed their gaze to the stool.

Taking the hat off her head with a determined expression, staring straight ahead without meeting anyone's eyes, "Weasley, Ginevra" stepped down from the stool in the sudden silence of the hall. I suppose McGonagall must have pursed her lips, at the sorting or the murmuring that began immediately after, but I didn't see. My eyes were drawn to the first-year walking past the Gryffindor table, walking past her brother and his friends without daring to look at them, walking past Nott and his cronies without bothering to look at them. She said not a word until she stood opposite me, between Tracey and Daphne.

"Budge over, Greengrass," she said quietly, and sat down.

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Notes, Continued:** As you may have picked up, Dobby (freed by Draco toward the end of "Last Second Chance") was not privy to Lucius' plan this time around, and thus did not attempt to stop Harry's return to Hogwarts. Therefore, Vernon makes his business deal, Harry does not receive a warning from Mafalda Hopkirk for improper use of magic, Harry and Ron can board the platform, and Vernon takes Petunia and Dudley for a vacation in Majorca to finish out the summer, leaving Harry with the Weasleys. Draco, as we'll recall from "Last Second Chance," was an utter beast to Pansy before they'd even been sorted; Ernie defended her, along with several other Hufflepuffs, and she ended up sorted into the House of the Badger. She's managed to work hard at not being a horrible bitch, so we are reminded that Hufflepuffs are not to be trifled with. As for this chapter's Ginny: Ron himself says she's normally very talkative, except around Harry. Something about it being difficult to get her to shut up. Also, no, this is not ZOMG True Luv! or something like that. She's eleven! And Draco's actually talked with her for all of a couple hours! Gah! Anyway, Draco is currently busy being the center of his own universe. There will be no shipping this year. At all. Our beloved prat hero needs to grow up some more first.


	3. The Flaw in the Plan

**Author's Note:** J.K. Rowling may be a Hufflepuff, but there's nothing wrong with that. After all, the canon and setting I'm using are hers, and where would we be without that? As someone reminded me last night, honey badger doesn't care what you think.

**-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 3: The Flaw in the Plan**

_**In which Draco doesn't know as much as he thinks he does and forgets an immensely-critical plot point, leading to disaster.**_

"Anything you do can get you shot. Including doing nothing."  
>– Murphy's Laws of Combat<p>

**-o-o-o-**

Lockhart was as ridiculous the second time around as he was the first. The only thing making it better is that I knew end-of-year grades, especially in Defense, didn't matter unless they were assigned as part of O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s. Especially this year, since the pompous popinjay's first test seemed to be a question of how well we'd followed his so-called career.

Unfortunately, I was stumped on question one: Name. Draco Malfoy? Draco No-Longer-A-Malfoy? I vaguely recalled someone telling me about a prefix or something to indicate an illegitimate child, and wondered if I was technically a bastard now. FitzMalfoy? It didn't flow very well. I put it down anyway.

Name: Draco FitzMalfoy. House: Slytherin. There were two questions down. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color? Damned if I cared. I wrote down "fuschia;" it seemed like something he'd say. Secret ambition? I was going with "to make boatloads of Galleons before the paternity suits caught up," and added "conning Dumbledore into giving him this job despite an utter lack of talent" for his greatest achievement.

I snarked through the rest, unable to keep a straight face, but it wasn't like Lockhart was paying attention. Not since Granger had presented him with a mirror before class, anyway. Now he couldn't pay attention to anything else.

What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite Quidditch team? Now I actually was stumped – as to why anyone would care. Maybe we needed to know these things so we'd have blackmail material against them team in case they died of shame? I'd pretty much guessed he was a Gryffindor, though, so I put "Slytherin House Quidditch Team" down.

I resigned myself, as I handed in the so-called "essential knowledge" test, to learning very little that year. At least, I thought, I could pick up any missed second-year knowledge at the library. Lockhart was, of course, grandstanding about the front of the classroom as we turned them in. I hoped the rest the year's classes would be a bit better, but I didn't have Lockhart again for a week. Thankfully, the prat assigned little homework; only to read the first chapter of one of his books.

I spent the first weekend in the library with Blaise, Tracey and Daphne. Seamus was content to skive off studying, but since we – and, it appeared, most of Ravenclaw house – wanted to learn something this year, we were stuck doing research on our own.

"It's wonderful to see such concern for your studies," Madam Pince commented as she stalked past us, a handful of discarded texts in her arms, the day before our next double Defense class. Blaise snorted.

"Well, someone has to care about them," Tracey said reasonably, "since obviously the git doesn't." Unfortunately, Pince overheard her, and we found ourselves kicked out of the library on a warm September evening. Daphne shook her head.

"I was just sitting there," she complained. "How is it fair for that squib to kick out a whole table for one comment? I should write the board of governors." The rest of us rolled our eyes as we walked back to the common room, where we were met by Marcus Flint. Despite his usual tendencies toward monosyllabic conversation, he was surprisingly forthcoming this evening.

"Quidditch tryouts Saturday!" he enthused. "You three are trying out, right?" he said, addressing me, Blaise and Tracey – Daphne hadn't shown much interest in Quidditch in the long term, and she obviously wasn't offended at being left out. We all nodded.

"Good," he said. "We did well last year, thanks to you all, but the usual team's suspensions have been lifted, so I'm having tryouts he said." I raised an eyebrow.

"Trying to be fair, Flint?" I said. "Careful, people will start thinking you're a Gryffindor or something." He laughed it off, and I was suddenly found myself wondering where he sat at dinner and where his politics lay.

"Naw, I just want to win," he admitted. "That means getting the best people on my team, especially as it's my last year." I frowned, distinctly remembering Flint on the team during my third year.

"I could have sworn you were coming back next year," I observed awkwardly, and he shook his head.

"I was thinking about trying to repeat a year, maybe get another year's worth of captaining under my belt before trying out for the big leagues, but I'll be fine," he said, and I wondered when Flint had started trusting me enough to open up like that. He seemed to realize what he was doing, though, and put that determined smirk on his face again. "Especially when we dominate again this year," he added, and we went our separate ways.

**-o-o-o-**

Lockhart's class hadn't really improved by the second session.

"I am shocked – shocked! – at how well most of you did on my first little quizzie!" Lockhart gushed. "Especially Miss Hermione Granger, who was able to correctly answer all but one question. By the way, my dear," he whispered conspiratorially to the blushing Gryffindor, "I consider my most epic battle to be the defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf, as described in my book _Wanderings With Werewolves,_ but I admit, the climactic clash with the Brookshire Basilisk does come a close second for me!"

Well, he certainly had a talent for alliteration, I thought, then did a double-take. Basilisk. Suddenly, second year came back to me in quick flashes. "It's using pipes," Flint said after Clearwater was petrified. "Potter's the heir of Slytherin," Ernie MacMillan was telling Hannah Abbott. Potter himself was speaking in Parseltongue after my little cobra trick during the dueling club. Snake. Giant snake. Petrification. I dug out _Break With a Banshee_ from my bookbag. "Badon Banshee, Brooklyn Alligator, Chicken of Bristol..." I muttered under my breath. "Here it is – Brookshire Basilisk." Digging through the purple prose, I found the passage I was looking for.

"Spiders flee swiftly from it, for it is their natural and eternal foe," I read, and remembered Weasley's stories about the car and the acromantulas. "The terrifying gaze of the dreadful basilisk turns will surely slay any victim unlucky enough to meet it, but luckily, I had my golden-gilded mirror with me. One look at its own baleful eyes and the vicious creature was petrified! Obviously, with the creature turned to cold and brittle stone, it was the work of a moment to dispatch it, saving the grateful village forever."

Mirrors. It was all done with mirrors. "You'll be next, Mudbloods," I heard myself saying seven years and an eternity ago, gazing at a puddle of water and a petrified cat. Tiny Colin Creevey, petrified through his camera lens. Clearwater and Granger, found with a mirror in her hand. Justin Finch-Fletchly – through the ghost? Sir Nicholas, unable to die twice. But who would know more about it? I knew the chamber had been opened forty or fifty years earlier. Had students been petrified then, too? I could check the records, but...

"Last time," I remembered telling Crabbe and Goyle, "a Mudblood died." I blocked out my memory before I could remember the feeling of wishing Granger dead. A Muggleborn had died at Hogwarts. How many had died over the years? In that time period? Father said she'd died in a bathroom. Then a thought struck me: what if she'd never left? I almost fell out of my chair.

"Something the matter, Mr. FitzMalfoy?" Lockhart asked, drawing confused murmurs from the rest of the class. "Or were you just embarrassed that you didn't get a single question right on my little quiz?" I shook my head.

"I need to be excused, Professor," I managed to say. "I need to find a bathroom." I wasn't even lying.

**-o-o-o-**

I really didn't want to go in there. Aside from the fact that it was the girls' bathroom, which didn't exactly bother me much anymore, since rules were made to be broken, I had some pretty awful memories of my own in that particular room.

Pushing the door open, I deliberately avoided looking at the spot on the floor where I'd almost bled out after Potter and I dueled. In the long term, I could push aside the terror and pain, thanking Potter for teaching me _sectumsempra_, but right here, at the scene of it, I wasn't sure I could handle it.

"Myrtle," I called out. "Might I bother you for a minute of your time?" I asked, in what I hoped was a winning tone. I kept my voice from trembling; I really didn't want to talk to the perpetually-morose ghost again, as even her voice held memories for me of unhealing wounds and losing my life's blood all over the bathroom floor.

"Ooh! What's a boy doing in here?" her voice came from one of her toilet stalls, bringing up a rush of memories despite my clamping down with Occlumency. "Shouldn't be in here," she added. "Might get caught, and then where would poor Myrtle be? ALL ALONE!" she bellowed again, diving into her toilet bowl with a sploosh. I rolled my eyes, hoping she couldn't see me.

"I'll just join you in your stall, then," I said, pushing forward to talk to her. "Myrtle," I contined, feeling mildly stupid talking to two disembodied eyes in the toilet's water. "Please come back out. I want to ask you something." Slowly, she raised her head from the bowl, then the rest of her.

"Is this a trick?" she asked, and I could feel, for a moment, that she really was the ghost of a fifteen-year-old girl, still vulnerable and shy after nearly fifty years. I shook my head, and held out my hand for her to climb out of the toilet. She looked at it suspiciously, but pulled herself fully from the bowl. I fought back a shudder; not out of fear, of course, but at her absolutely freezing temperature. Myrtle cautiously strode around me, as if determining that I wasn't hiding anything to throw at her. "What do you want to know?" she finally asked, as if satisfied I wasn't going to start chucking things through her head.

"How did you die?" I blurted out, not knowing where else to start. She eyed me with strange curiosity, then smiled and clapped her hands once.

"Ooh, nobody ever asks me that!" she gushed. "It was simply _awful_," she confided. "I was in this very stall, bawling my eyes out because that utter cow Olive Hornby had said the most _dreadful_ things to me," she started, but cut off immediately. "Legs up," she whispered, and put the toilet seat down for me to stand on. Confused, I did what she said, only then hearing the door to the lavatory open. "Stay here," she hissed, turning around.

"Who's there?" she asked, ready to tell them to go away. There was a terrible grinding noise, and the stall door flew open. Through Myrtle's translucent form, I was staring directly into two enormous, golden eyes, and then there was something bitter on my tongue and my eyes were blinking in the June sun floating through the hospital wing windows.

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Note:** Per the Potter films, Lockhart is actually a Ravenclaw (much to our eternal shame). However, considering all Draco can judge by is Lockhart's tendency to act first and think never... Okay, so Potter Wiki says Ginny first opened the Chamber of Secrets on September 8th, despite Mrs. Norris not being petrified until Halloween (it doesn't source this claim, so I'm a little skeptical of it, but it fits the timeline of my story well). If you're wondering why I'm skipping much of _Chamber of Secrets_, it's because one of my other stories, "Disturbing the Universe," takes place entirely during that year, and while I've not gotten around to putting words on paper for more than the few chapters I've got up, I do have most of the plot planned out and don't want to mix my fics if I can help it. Next chapter: Draco has questions, and even gets some answers.


	4. June in the Hospital Wing

**Author's Note:** It's J.K. Rowling's world. The rest of us just live in it, write in it, and abuse the characters mercilessly. Even you Gryffindors. Odd folks, every last one of you, but I wouldn't change you for the world.

**-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 4: June in the Hospital Wing**

_**In which Draco demands answers, and even gets a few of them; in which the Heir of Slytherin is revealed, Draco suffers his first major setback (other than spending a year petrified), and much exposition is accomplished at the expense of dealing with verbosity. What now, word count?**_

"No plan survives initial contact with the enemy."  
>– Murphy's Laws of Combat<p>

**-o-o-o-**

Madam Pomfrey managed to resist the temptation to silence me, as the first thing out of my mouth when I woke up was a string of profanity that would likely have made Hagrid blush (technically it was the second thing, if you count the spoon with the remains of the Mandrake Restorative Draught still contaminating it. Why must all useful potions taste awful?).

"Under the circumstances, I can't say I blame you, Mister Malfoy," the mediwitch said, drolly, "but I require you to keep a civil tongue in your mouth while you're in my infirmary." I tried my best for a cheeky grin, but it came out a disgruntled grimace. I nodded anyway, taking stock of my surroundings.

To the surprise of absolutely nobody, I was joined in the hospital wing by Harry Potter – in his usual bed. Someone had graciously strung a sign over it reading, in passable handwriting, "Reserved for Mr. H. J. Potter, Gryffindor House." Unlike most of us, he was smiling, and bore a wide array of cuts and bruises all over his face and neck. The arm I could see was covered in a thick bandage, though it was clean and unsullied by blood or grime.

Further adding to the Gryffindor stereotype of looking well before they leapt, several more members of Godric's house appeared to be filling beds around Potter. Granger and Weasley were in the next two, with that disgusted look on their faces that told me they'd recently learned the Joy of Mandrake themselves. I could barely see tow-headed Colin Creevey's mop behind them, so apparently the other victims – and I definitely needed to stop classifying myself as that – weren't limited to our year.

Nor were they limited to one house – a fourth-year, whom it took me a moment to recognize as Cedric Diggory, was further down, next to a still-unconscious Pansy Parkinson. A Ravenclaw I didn't recognize was beyond them, and I sighed when I recognized Terrence Higgs, the seeker I'd replaced, behind him. With both me and Higgs in the hospital wing, our Quidditch team must have been dreadful this year. Potter noticed my gaze, and shook his head, smiling ruefully.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" he asked. "But nope – second overall in league, behind us." I tilted my head.

"How?" I asked. "I mean, if Diggory was benched, sure, maybe Hufflepuff, but Ravenclaw too? I thought they had some seventh-year as seeker?" Potter messed with his hair, looking over at Weasley, who was listening raptly. Quidditch unites all peoples, apparently, though for some reason Potter looked a little guilty.

"Um, your seeker got the snitch before theirs did," he said, lamely. I nodded.

"So Higgs wasn't petrified until after the game," I surmised aloud. Granger shook her head.

"No, he was barely two weeks after you," she said, and Weasley enthusiastically nodded.

"Yeah, I remember, Dean and Seamus and I were all talking about it right before..." he trailed off.

"Right before you got petrified," Potter finished flatly, clearly annoyed at having to spend the year without his two best friends. "How did you manage to avoid dying, by the way?" he asked. "Ginny, Luna, Neville and I managed to figure out where the beast was coming from, but we didn't even know it was a basilisk until Lockhart died." I boggled, all thoughts of Quidditch momentarily tabled.

"Wait, it killed Lockhart?" Weasley asked. Granger made a disappointed face. "That's unfortunate," he added lamely. Clearly, Weasley mourned Gilderoy Lockhart as if he was his own father. Potter rolled his eyes.

"Last week, actually," he said. "Right before the end of it all. Apparently," he said, "the ponce had left his 'antique basilisk-slaying blade' in his office and skipped off to get it." He scowled. "Apparently," he continued, "his office is somewhere on the grounds toward Hogsmeade, since his body was found face down in the entrance hall as if running for the door." Granger's face went from mournful to scornful so fast, you'd think she had a time-turner.

"Coward," she spat. "He was supposed to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher! Imagine running away and leaving a school full of children to a basilisk!" She threw her arms around her in a huff. Weasley smiled at her comfortingly. Well, disarmingly, anyway. Charmingly empty-headed. Something something parentage. I had nothing; apparently the Mandrake Restorative Draught affected my comeback technique.

"So Quidditch," he changed the subject back before I could inquire fuller on the Chamber of Secrets. "Who played for Slytherin and beat the Ravenclaws?" I couldn't exactly fault Weasley; after all, I wanted to know too. But at that moment, Ginny burst through the hospital wing doors, still dressed in green Slytherin robes and Quidditch pads. Crowded behind her were Neville Longbottom, still wearing red and gold and carrying a Gryffindor flag, and Luna Lovegood, wearing a giant snake hat that occasionally echoed with a menacing hiss.

"You know your team's worthless without you, Potter," she said. "310 to 180, by the way," she added, laughing. "I'd have been here sooner, but the game ran long. The boys and Tracey are washing up, but they're on their way." I grinned, partly at my team's victory in my absence, partly at the gobsmacked look on Weasley's face, and partly at the scowl on Potter's.

"She got you on her side, Luna?" he asked, half-chiding, half-amused. The tiny Ravenclaw nodded.

"This time, Harry Potter," she said. "But I've found some notes on a lion hat for next time," she promised. I laughed.

"Fair's fair, Potter," I said, grinning at Ginny, who suddenly had a guilty look in her eyes that I couldn't quite place. "I could have sworn we were scheduled to play earlier, though," I added as an afterthought. Ginny smirked.

"This was for the Cup," she said. "The first game, they won," she admitted. "I mean, first game ever, on an old Cleansweep, and I have to go against Harry freaking Potter and his Nimbus freaking 2000?" She pulled her hair, which had been pulled back in a tight tail, out of her hairband. "Completely unfair." Potter grinned at her.

"You're just mad because our chasers are better than yours," he said, smirking. Ginny shook her head, but it had the effect of making a mane out of her, well, mane.

"Your chasers have been playing together for longer," she said, finally making her way to Ron. "Hey, big brother," she said. "I'm really glad you're not dead," she added, lamely, before hugging him and covering him with a Quidditch game's worth of dirt and grime. "There," she added, ruffling his hair. "Now you and Potter match." She smiled fondly at her older brother, and Granger chuckled.

Everyone looked like they had a bit more to say, but we were interrupted. Having finally woken all the petrified people, Madam Pomfrey chose that moment to return to us.

"If I had my way, I would keep you all here for another night of bed rest," she started in her usual brusque manner, "But Professor Dumbledore seems to believe that a night of frivolity with your houses should do you all good, and I'm willing to allow it, so long as you take it easy." She turned to glare at Higgs, who was enthusiastically pulling on his Slytherin robes.

"That means no firewhiskey, Mr. Higgs," she warned. "I realize you're of age now, but by Helga's Hammer, if I hear you've been drinking after I so generously let you out of the hospital wing, I'll make you repeat your seventh year entirely in this room, do you understand?" He nodded sheepishly, and the mediwitch turned to the rest of us.

"As for all of you, I'm sure you can find your way back to your common rooms," she said, waving her hands in a gesture of dismissal. "Mr. Diggory, if you and Ms. Chang would escort Ms. Parkinson; I think she may have had the worst of it," she said behind us, and I kicked myself for not recognizing the Ravenclaw earlier. Well, maybe something would start between her and Diggory earlier and she wouldn't be too much of a weeping mess to ignore her best friend selling us all down the river in a few years, I reasoned.

I was just turning to follow Higgs down to the Slytherin common room when Longbottom grabbed my arm.

"Come with us, Malfoy," he said. "Room of Requirement," he added at my inquisitive look. "There's more explaining for the four of us to do, and Ginny said you needed to be there for some reason." I nodded, made my excuses with Higgs, and trundled off behind the others.

**-o-o-o-**

Unlike the aristocratic dinner table setting I'd used last year, or the utterly-cluttered Room of Hidden Things I'd wasted a year in the first time around, the Room of Requirement looked like a mildly cramped sitting room with windows looking out onto the English countryside. What had to be a secondhand couch in Gryffindor colors faced an ancient, but welcoming, fireplace which roared warmly. Despite this, and the obvious June heat in the real world outside, the room seemed comfortably warm, the fire's heat contrasting with a chill coming in through the windows.

I suspected this was Ginny's house in the winter, and the other Weasley's amused gaze confirmed it. I guessed, however, that the Weasleys didn't have the second, smaller couch – a loveseat, I think the Muggles called it – trimmed in Slytherin green, or the completely overstuffed armchair in blue and bronze which Lovegood sunk down in with a contented sigh. Playing the room's little game, I took the loveseat with Ginny, while Longbottom, Potter, Granger and the other Weasley managed to fit just fine on the couch.

"So where do I start?" Potter asked, curious. "Malfoy, you were the first one petrified." I shook my head.

"It had to have started before that," I said. "I didn't exactly petrify myself, after all," I added, and felt Ginny rustle beside me uncomfortably. We all looked at her.

"It started with me," she said, suddenly the meek first-year I'd remembered from the first time around. "With me, and with a very, very evil book." I perked up at this. "A diary, actually," she said, and my eyes widened. She looked at me and nodded. "Draco found me reading it on the Express here," she said. "I was confiding in it, since I felt like I hadn't been able to talk to anyone else," she said. Weasley perked up at this.

"Ginny, I'm your brother," he said needlessly. "You know you can always talk to me." Ginny smiled sadly, and shook her head.

"Ron, you know that's not entirely true," she said gently. "We used to be best friends, but you went to school and didn't write me at all as soon as you had Harry and Hermione. Then, when you came home, all you could talk about was school, until Harry came to the Burrow," she added. I noticed she was using first names now, and gathered the last-name basis was a combination of Quidditch trash-talk and Slytherin cunning in front of Higgs, Diggory, Chang and Parkinson – not to mention Creevey. Weasley nodded.

"I s'pose you're right," he admitted, showing an uncharacteristic amount of awareness. "But I'll work on it," he said. "You're my sister, and family is important." I bit back a smile. I agreed, of course, but that was pretty much one of the unofficial Malfoy family mottos as well, and I didn't want to go down that road right now. Ginny continued.

"So when Harry came, I felt even more alone, even when Hermione was there," she said. "You three had this thing I couldn't possibly break into, and of course that ridiculous crush left me completely unable to talk to Harry for more than the time it took me to put my elbow in butter," she admitted, smiling now. Harry looked confused.

"But we're twelve," he said. Ginny rolled her eyes.

"I did say it was ridiculous, didn't I?" she said. "I had this myth built up of the Boy-Who-Lived, and I couldn't put that together with the boy my age who was friends with my brother. So after Tom showed up in my cauldron, I confided in him." My blood ran cold.

"This cauldron wouldn't be the one you were carrying at Diagon Alley?" I asked, slowly, dreading the answer. Ginny looked at me strangely.

"Yeah," she answered. "And Tom – the diary – showed up that day too. At the time, I thought it was a gift from Dad," she said. "But it wasn't, was it?" she asked, noticing, as I'm sure everyone did, that my hands were gripping the seat cushions tight enough to put holes in them.

"No," I ground out. "It almost certainly wasn't." I was thankful for the Room of Requirement's generally fireproof status (fiendfyre notwithstanding), as I didn't trust my magic to keep still. "Lucius must have slipped it in the cauldron during his little fight." Weasley jumped up and started yelling, Potter looked murderous, and Ginny's eyes were suddenly filled with such blazing light I thought I might burst into flame right there.

"EVERYONE SHUT IT!" Longbottom bellowed. "Ron, you don't even know why you're mad," he said reasonably. "Harry, Ginny, we'll deal with Mr. Malfoy later. We're telling a story right now." With that, he sat down, and I once again was reminded of the man standing with the burning embers of the Sorting Hat falling around him, facing the Dark Lord with nothing but an ancient sword and borrowed courage.

"Fine," Potter said, and it clearly wasn't, but if he wanted revenge on my father for putting his friends and allies in danger (I knew which of those descriptors fit me), he'd just have to get in line. I leaned over and whispered into Ginny's ear.

"You and I can take care of it," I hissed. "He'll get his, and your father can help." Her scowl slowly faded into a predatory grin before settling somewhere in between, but the blazing look in her eyes refused to go away.

"Fine," she said, "but it had better be good, and I reserve the right to involve Fred and George if I don't like it." I nodded.

"Duly noted," I agreed. "Continue, please," I gestured grandly, drawing a smirk from Longbottom.

"In any event, Tom wrote back, and seemed to understand me," Ginny continued. "I was pretty much under his control before the train, but you guys listening to me helped like you wouldn't believe," she said, nodding to me. Weasley looked dubious, as if a group of Slytherins could never be of any help, but kept quiet – a first, I know. "So I put the diary away, and I thought I'd be fine, but then the hat put me in Slytherin," she said.

"What's wrong with that?" I asked. "Didn't you just say you'd enjoyed your time with us?" She glared at me, but the full force of her Weasley wrath wasn't behind it.

"Draco," she said flatly, "how many girls are in my year in Slytherin?" I shrugged, and she nodded. "One. Me." Comprehension dawned.

"And it's a big room," I said. She nodded again.

"And someone wasn't talking to me," Ginny added, shooting a glare at her older brother, who had the courtesy to look completely guilty.

"It took a while for me to get used to the idea," he said. "I was kind of shell-shocked there for a while, wasn't I?" he added, looking to Potter and Granger, who nodded in agreement.

"He was, actually," Granger admitted. "It's one of the reasons he started coming to the library with me of his own free will," she added, getting an elbow from Weasley for her trouble. "What?" she asked. "It's true." Ginny cleared her throat.

"Not blaming anyone," she said. "Except Tom – and Lucius Malfoy," she added quickly. "But Tom took control back pretty quick," she said, shuddering. "You have no idea what his mind is like, even just a piece of it in a book," she said, grimacing. "It's completely overpowering." Ginny looked up at me again. "That was about the end of week one," she said, "and that was when I blacked out." Weasley and Granger were paying rapt attention, but it was Longbottom who continued.

"Malfoy, you ran out of class that day, and we didn't find you until after dinner," he said. "Zabini and Finnegan even dragged Dean and I around the school to help look when you weren't at lunch or dinner." I smiled. Loyalty wasn't entirely alien to the house of the serpent, after all, even if the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were better known for it. Potter kept up the story.

"When they found you, nobody was sure what had happened," he said. "I was in the hospital wing that night due to a minor Gobstones-related injury, and – shut up!" he elbowed Weasley. "Anyway, I overheard Pomfrey saying they had no idea what had petrified you. Lockhart claimed it was some sort of banshee, but by that point, we were learning to ignore him," Potter said.

"Yeah, it _was_ about a week in by that point," Weasley agreed. "So anyway, things were quiet for a few weeks after that," he said. "But Harry, Hermione and I hadn't figured out why by the time we got petrified." Ginny nodded, picking the story back up.

"I put times together, and realized I'd been blacked out when you were petrified," she said. "I asked Tom about it, and his reply was pretty off, something about blood traitors and regrettable causualties of war," Ginny said, face turned down in disgust. "Needless to say, I tried to get rid of the diary at that point." She huffed. "I didn't know who found it until about a week ago, though, and we'll get to that later," she said.

"Anyway, Terrence Higgs was next," Lovegood said, "and Cho followed closely after that. I suspected Nargles were behind it at the time," she breezed, "or possibly a Blibbering Humdinger." She sighed. "I was wrong. Nargles wouldn't kill anyone," she said. Granger boggled.

"Kill someone? When did that happen?" she asked. "I mean," she said, "Ronald and I had been researching it in the library, and we remembered Lockhart was talking about a basilisk just before you bolted, so we looked it up." Weasley nodded.

"And Lockhart kept prattling on about that mirror of his, so we put two and two together," he said. I bit back a comment about not knowing he could. "Well, Higgs was in the middle of a flooded corridor, and Chang was found with her mirror, but she's pretty vain so we didn't really think much of it at the time," he explained. "And since Myrtle was just as petrified as you were, we weren't really sure what had happened to you," he added, courteously leaving off the implied 'and I didn't care' from the end of the sentence.

"But then I thought you might have seen the basilisk through Moaning Myrtle," Granger said, "and since she couldn't die again, she was petrified too." I nodded.

"I did, actually," I said. "I suppose I owe her some thanks." Granger nodded.

"Anyway, Ronald and I were heading to Professor McGonagall's office to tell her when the basilisk found us," she said. "But we were carrying a mirror of our own by then, just in case, and we got petrified instead." Weasley nodded.

"That thing was huge," he said. "I don't fancy being whoever has to take care of it." Potter and Longbottom exchanged glances, and Lovegood started to giggle. I felt Ginny stir beside me, sitting on her hands, and could see the beginning of a smile on her face. Potter killed the mood.

"So then Penelope Clearwater died, and they dragged Hagrid off to Azkaban," he growled. "Because apparently he opened the Chamber of Secrets last time fifty years ago, and nobody bothered to investigate whether or not he was actually guilty." Lovegood stopped giggling.

"By that time, Ginny and I were friends again," she said. "And we were visiting with Hagrid and Harry when Fudge and Malfoy came to arrest him." She frowned. "How someone as incompetent as that man ever managed to get his hands on an army of heliopaths is beyond me, but daddy swears it's true." With that helpful aside, she yielded to Potter.

"Anyway, Hagrid made some cryptic comments about following spiders, so we did," he said. Ginny shook her head ruefully. "Worst mistake ever, really," Potter admitted. "Interesting sidebar: there are acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest," he shuddered. "And Firenze and Magorian asked to be remembered to you, Malfoy," he added. I put two and two together.

"The Centaurs saved you again?" I asked, and he nodded to confirm. "Figures," I muttered. Ruddy horsemen wouldn't lift a finger to help last time, but since someone had already 'set themselves against the stars,' they could interfere however they wanted this time.

"Long story short is that Hagrid was raising a baby acromantula during the time the Chamber of Secrets, and the school used the spider – Aragog – as a scapegoat for being the chamber. Hagrid was expelled after one of the Slytherin prefects, Tom Riddle, turned him in." I raised an eyebrow.

"That guy with the huge award for special services to the school?" I asked, remembering polishing the trophy room at one point or another. Potter nodded.

"Three guesses what Tom got it for," Ginny said, scowling. I glanced at her.

"Same Tom?" I asked. She nodded, and shoved her shoulder against me. Apparently I was as slow on the uptake as Weasley. "So Hagrid was arrested," I continued. "Then what happened?" Longbottom scowled now, a look utterly alien to his still-pudgy face.

"The Board of Governors sacked Dumbledore," he said. "Apparently they felt he was unable to maintain order in the school." I shook my head, rolling my eyes for maximum effect.

"No prizes for guessing who was behind that, I assume," I groaned. Lovegood nodded.

"Your father does seem to be firmly in Fudge's pockets," she said, and added, at my confused look, "since he's apparently his wallet." Oh. That made sense. I suddenly wondered about my sanity.

"Anyway," Potter continued, "Pansy and Cedric were petrified about a week later, along with the Fat Friar, and Colin Creevey a few weeks later," he said. "They were already talking about closing the school, but McGonagall convinced the governors to last at least until the end of the year. Then last week happened," he said, grimacing. Longbottom took over.

"So we were all banded together by that point," he said. "Lockhart got killed, and we figured out it was a basilisk. We couldn't guess why only two people had died, but we were working on it. Harry and I were walking back from Potions when we heard that a student had been taken into the Chamber itself. McGonagall called for everyone to go back to their common rooms, but you know how Harry has a saving-people-thing," he said. Potter shrugged, and I resisted the urge to facepalm. Once again, Potter had managed to almost get himself killed before he could kill my pet Dark Lord for me.

"So Luna and I met them at the Chamber," Ginny said, "because I'd finally figured out where the creature was coming out." I nodded.

"Upstairs girl's loo," I said, then smiled at the sudden looks of incredulous disbelief on everyone's faces. "What? I dragged it out of Myrtle before the two of us were petrified." Potter looked like he was going to hit something.

"So anyway, Harry opened the Chamber," Ginny said. I broke in.

"Wait a minute. I thought only the Heir of Slytherin could open the Chamber of Secrets?" I commented. Harry rolled his eyes.

"Apparently I'm a Parselmouth," he said. "It's not exactly a secret anymore," he added to Longbottom's glare. "So I opened it using Parseltongue." I nodded.

"That makes more sense," I admitted. It was nice to finally work that one out – I never had the first time around. "So you went down into the Chamber of Secrets, and obviously something happened there. So spill." Potter shrugged.

"There weren't a whole lot of stairs, and the whole thing's pretty unstable, really," he said. "We got to the bottom fine, if a little grimy – but then the roof collapsed." Ginny scowled.

"Yeah, it cut me and Luna off from the boys, which was pretty bad, but we were able to get out using my broom," she said. I tilted my head to look at her curiously.

"I thought you were using the school's cleansweep?" I asked. She blushed.

"I, uh, may have nicked yours from your dorm room," she admitted, to my incredulous stare. "What? It wasn't as if you were using it, and I figured you'd want Slytherin to win the other matches." I bit back a scowl. She had me there. I settled for frowning and nodding. "It's fine, by the way," she said. "It's locked up on the pitch whenever you want it back." I kept nodding. Longbottom cleared his throat.

"Uh, so, Harry and I moved on, and found the chamber itself," he said, somewhat self-consciously. "So we see Nott lying on the ground, and–"

"Wait, as in Theodore Nott? What was he doing down there?" I cut him off. Potter broke in.

"He had the diary in his hand, actually," he said, and I could feel Ginny shift again beside me. "It had been draining him pretty hard. But we didn't know that just then." I nodded. Weasley cut in at this point.

"Wait, that could have happened to you, Ginny?" he asked with his usual lack of tact. She nodded, and without a word, Weasley got up from his Gryffindor couch, walked over the Slytherin one, and embraced his surprised sister in a hug before walking back to the red and gold couch. "Continue," he bade Potter as Ginny smiled beside me.

"So anyway, Nott was lying there, and we ran over to him, trying to wake him up," Potter said. Longbottom sighed.

"And I dropped my wand in the confusion," he admitted. "So when Harry looked up and saw someone there, he was holding my wand." Granger blinked.

"Who was it?" she asked, likely suspecting Snape or maybe my father. Potter grimaced.

"Tom Riddle," he said. "Tom Marvolo Riddle." Something in the way he said 'Tom' shook loose memories of a night I'd really rather forget, but never would be able to.

**-o-o-o-**

I was watching Potter in the Great Hall, as he stepped between Molly Weasley and the Dark Lord. Not that a _protego_ charm would do anything against an _Avada Kedavra_, but the shock alone was enough for the few remaining Death Eaters to stop fighting momentarily.

"It's over, Tom," he said, circling the Dark Lord. "The Horcruxes are destroyed – all of them. The diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the diadem and the snake." It almost looked like the Dark Lord shuddered, but he quickly recovered.

"It doesn't matter, Harry Potter," the Dark Lord hissed in that frustratingly creepy high voice of his. "I am still the better wizard, and I control the Elder Wand." I couldn't break out of the flashback before I saw once again the awful look the Dark Lord placed on me when Potter told him that I had, however briefly, been the master of the Elder Wand, and their banter continued.

"So think hard, Tom, and try for some remorse," Potter said. "Because I've seen what you be if you can't feel remorse, and I wouldn't wish it on anybody." And the Dark Lord ignored him.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

"_Expelliarmus!_"

**-o-o-o-**

"Tom Marvolo Riddle?" I said. "Seems an odd name for anyone." Potter nodded.

"I was confused too, but Tom started monologuing," he said. I smirked. Just like the Dark Lord, really. It should have been obvious, in hindsight. "He kept talking about how he'd deceived poor Nott, and though the waste of his pure blood was a shame, it was worth it for him to be reborn." Potter shook his head, regretfully. "I wish I'd known he wasn't fully back yet. We might have been able to save Nott." I boggled.

"What do you mean, save him?" I asked carefully. Potter sighed.

"The diary drained him entirely," he said. "Riddle killed him." I drew a short breath. _One down,_ I thought. _I've lost one already._ A little voice that sounded suspiciously like the Sorting Hat whispered back. _What was Lockhart, nothing? _I forced it down. _Never again, _I thought. _Not one more_. Potter gave me a moment, then continued.

"He said it was worth it to resurrect the greatest sorcerer who ever lived. Of course, Neville and I were having none of that," he said. Longbottom looked equally bashful and proud.

" 'Albus Dumbledore is the greatest sorcerer who ever lived,' we told him," Longbottom said. "Obviously that cheesed him off a bit," he added, smiling. "He said something about Dumbledore being kicked out of the castle by the mere memory of him. Then he told us who he actually was," he said. At our confused looks, he waved his wand in the air, spelling out three words, then rearranging them.

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE.

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT.

"You were possessed by YOU-KNOW-WHO!" Weasley bellowed at his sister, launching himself into another massive hug. "You're the most amazing sister ever," he whispered – I doubt anyone else could have heard it, but I was sitting right there.

"Then he sicced his pet on us," Longbottom said, and shuddered. Potter took over. By now, only he and Longbottom had been seen the end of this, so the rest of us were all paying rapt attention.

"At that point, Fawkes – the headmaster's phoenix?" he paused to make sure we were mostly familiar with the creature. We all nodded, Lovegood making a comment about having seen him just after a burning day. "Fawkes came down into the chamber, scratching the basilisk's eyes out, which was obviously a good thing. Riddle was furious," Potter said. "He started casting curses at me, so I dove behind a pillar and started firing back. I kind of lost track of the basilisk at that point," he admitted. "I found out later Riddle was a seventh-year when he made the diary, so he wasn't exactly at the height of his power, but I was still pretty outclassed." Longbottom nodded.

"Fawkes dropped the Sorting Hat into my hands," he said. "And it kind of clunked, so I reached inside, and a sword came out." He sighed, remembering. "Apparently, it was the sword of Godric Gryffindor," he said, still in awe. "Professor McGonagall said it's been lost for ages." His face hardened. "With it, I slew the basilisk." We waited for a moment.

"And?" Granger prompted. "Just like that?" Longbottom blushed.

"Uh, it took a while. And I got bit," he said, "But Fawkes cried on me, so it all turned out for the best." He obviously took attention even worse than Potter did. Granger obviously wasn't satisfied, but Weasley elbowed her in an effort to move on.

"So meanwhile, Harry's dueling Baby You-Know-Who, and takes a nasty curse to the arm," Longbottom said. Potter perked up.

"Yeah, I still don't know what it was," he said. "Nasting cutting thing, but it wasn't _diffindo _or anything like that." I shuddered, having no idea where a 17-year-old Dark Lord would have picked up _Sectumsempra_, since my Godfather had invented it years later, but didn't say anything. Potter confirmed my suspicions. "Professor Snape had apparently seen it before, though," he said. "He healed it right up later on." He shrugged.

"Anyway, I managed to lure Riddle in front of the basilisk, and he doesn't see it coming," Potter said. "Neville pulled it past us, and I hit Riddle with a tripping jinx. He went down, and the snake pounced." He swallowed. "Instinct, I suppose. But that was all it took. Neville killed the snake shortly after that." I shook my head.

"That's pretty incredible," I said. "But I don't know how much of it is going to be believed outside of this group," I added before he could start congratulating himself. Potter nodded.

"Dumbledore believes me, and he thinks it's pretty important that we don't spread too far how close Voldemort came to making a return," he said. I nodded.

"Yeah. No sense in causing a panick," I agreed. "But I assume my Godfather knows?" I asked. Oh, crap. I realized I hadn't even said hello to my Godfather since I woke up. That was something that would have to be rectified immediately. Potter nodded.

"Yeah, Professor Snape knows, since he was healing me," the Boy-Who-Kept-Living-Despite-His-Irritating-Tendency-To-Throw-Himself-Into-Danger said. "Oh, I almost forgot," he added, looking around. "There's one more person who wants to say something to you." I tilted my head curiously.

"Theo, you can come out now," Potter said, and a wispy apparition in Slytherin robes floated through the walls of the Room of Requirement.

"I'm so sorry, Draco," Theodore Nott said. "I was wrong. About everything." Salazar's Teeth, if I had a sickle for every time I'd heard that over the years, I suspect I'd have a sickle. Slytherins are a prideful bunch, after all. Witness me: I could barely think of anything at all to say.

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Notes:** Long chapter. Back on track for NaNo, though :) I totally can't remember if I made Cho seeker of the Ravenclaw team already. I doubt I did, and I think she didn't make seeker until _Prisoner of Azkaban_ in canon, so I think we'll be fine. As for girls in Ginny's year, we're assuming Astoria Greengrass is at least two years behind Daphne, so Ginny's pretty alone in her dorm. And seriously, Salazar's Teeth, long chapter. I got distracted in the middle of this by another plot idea, so if you happen to see a story up on my site called "Colin Creevey: Hero of the Imperium," you'll know when it came from. At least I can count the words for NaNo. SO: I'm going to cut this chapter here, and get back to wrapping it up with the train-ride home. This ran longer than expected, for obvious reasons, and Draco has been left kind of reeling. Shock will catch up to him in the next chapter, for sure – as well as a discussion with his Godfather regarding the true nature of the enemy they face. One thing to note: Draco has no idea that Harry is a Horcrux. Harry, for obvious reasons, didn't announce that in front of everyone, so Draco never found out. Dumbledore is beginning to suspect, and with the book acting how it did and spawning a fully-corporeal Tom Riddle, is likely to proceed on the path left to him by canon. Also, our villains haven't really had a chance to be proactive, but year three should change that. Once again, Draco not having all the answers means he's going to make a mistake. Also, to answer one of my reviewers, I assume the story has less reviews because less people read stories under 10,000 words than stories over 10,000 words (we'll see if this chapter changes things, as it is definitely over that mark). As for why I don't list a second character – rightly or wrongly, people assume that two names on a story means a pairing. As I am not shipping this story (next story, I promise), and wouldn't spoil things by listing an name if I was, that complicates things :). But thanks for reviewing, and for reading.


	5. Interlude I: Malfoy Manor

**Author's Note:** Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today to remind our readers that, as you might expect, J.K. Rowling (and not MandibleBones) owns the Harry Potter series, its world and its characters. MandibleBones owns an adorable kitty named Boris, but that is neither here nor there.

**-o-o-o-**

**Interlude: Malfoy Manor**

_**In which fallout occurs.**_

"Friendly fire isn't."  
>– Murphy's Laws of Combat<p>

**-o-o-o-**

"I can't believe you!" Narcissa Malfoy hissed, picking up another pieces of – highly expensive, Lucius thought – antique crockery. "What in Merlin's name do you mean, 'it wasn't my fault?' " She threw the vase at her husband, missing his head only because years of serving the Dark Lord had taught him well how to sense incoming danger. "Of COURSE it was bloody well your fault, Lucius! It's always your fault!"

"I didn't know it was going to release a bloody snake!" Lucius complained, hiding behind a seven-thousand-Galleon dragonhide couch and looking longingly at his wand, still in his cane and halfway across the room. "It was just supposed to make that raging oaf Arthur Weasley look like the fool he is," he said, ducking one of his exceptionally-well cobbled leather boots. Honestly, he thought. Who threw a shoe?

"And how," Narcissa asked through her teeth, holding up the boot's mate and looking she thought a reunion was called for, "was it supposed to do that?" She didn't give him a chance to answer before she tossed the other boot at his head. "Because the Weasley girl's little note said she'd been posessed! POSESSED, LUCIUS!" she shrieked, looking for more ammunition. Lucius didn't bother coming out from behind the couch.

"I honestly hadn't thought it through," he admitted. "It was one of the Dark Lord's possessions; I figured it was obviously cursed," he said. He heard a shriek of indignition, and suddenly the back of the couch was pierced by two swords, a spear he hadn't remembered owning and – Salazar's Teeth, was that an axe? Where had she found that? He looked up to see Narcissa glaring down at him over the back of the couch.

"Let me get this straight, Lucius," she hissed. "You slipped the daughter of a department head a cursed object owned by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named out of some petty rivalry, and this is supposed to somehow improve our family's lot? And to top it off," she moaned, turning around to settle down on the couch between the spear and one of the swords, "you almost got our son killed, after removing him from the safety of our home where you could at least have warned him... and will you stop that infernal thumping noise?" Lucius popped his head up.

"What thumping noise?" he asked, listening. There it was again – they both heard it. They looked at each other in confusion, then at the front door, just as it burst in.

"Auror Office!" a tall, imposing black man in cerulean robes bellowed. "We have a warrant to search these premises for dark objects," he added, seeing the two Malfoys finally. Lucius sneered as he sized Kingsley Shacklebolt up, noticing the tall, confident man in auror robes and the pink-haired young woman in trainee robes behind him.

"Come right in," Lucius said darkly. "We, of course, have nothing to hide." He cursed, inwardly, but doubted the Aurors would find anything beside the odd poison. He'd have to pay a fine, of course, but it would inevitably be pitiful next to the cost of replacing his door. And his couch, he mentally added, as he looked at his wife.

"I'm glad you feel that way," Arthur Weasley said, stepping out from behind Shacklebolt. "Because personally?" he grinned like Minerva McGonagall after eating a Canary Cream. "I think you have plenty to hide." And Weasley unrolled a scroll of parchment, which nearly reached the floor. "Dawlish, Tonks, better check out the secret chamber under the drawing room rug," he said, to Lucius' cringe. "For the very start."

**-o-o-o-**

"Why do they even _have_ that button?" John Dawlish whinged, wiping some undeterminable goo from his hair as Nymphadora Tonks – just Tonks, thanks – giggled next to him. "So," he said, attempting to regain some dignity, "What do we have so far, again?" Tonks cleared her throat officially.

"A vault full of ancient torture devices proscribed by the Edinburgh Goblin Treaty of 1604; three soul-drinking weapons not to include the spear found in the couch above; the ancient runeblade Samarkand, thought lost when Death Eaters raided the Museum of Magical Antiquities in Cairo back in the 1970s," she paused to catch her breath. "A cellar full of unregistered Atlantean antiquities, including but not limited to a full suit of Imperial Guard armor and what may well be the second-to-last bottle of wine from that city if that pompous Angel living under London has lost his; three casks of Greek fire, any of which are considered Weapons of City-Wide Destruction under the Goblin Re-re-re-unification Treate of 1342 and together are just shy of a Weapon of Mass Magical Destruction under the Inernational Confederation of Wizards – and we didn't think any really existed!" Dawlish cut her off, taking the inventory from her.

"What appears to be a Grindelwald-era Panzer tank enchanted to withstand the might of a Muggle atomic bomb; fifteen vials of unregistered basilisk venom; not less than three authentic copies of the Necronomicon, including one in the original Enochian; the wand of Abdul al-Hazrad; not less than twenty three unregistered wands and three more of dubious actual workmanship," now Dawlish had to pause for breath. "Ahem. Five blood quills; not less than fifteen gallons of poisons ranging from mildly debilitating to outright lethal; a necklace possessed by the spirit of a dead elder god and thought destroyed at the dawn of the millennium; two genuine demons outlawed by the Unseelie Accords and hidden in the forms of albino peakocks, and a Class C Non-tradeable Partridge in a Pear Tree." He snorted, looking at the door in front of them.

"And now this," Tonks agreed. "I wonder if we should open – oops!" she cried, tripping over a discarded gauntlet and slamming against the handle. "I guess that answers that question," she said, sheepish, as Dawlish glared at her. "What's in there?" She asked, as the door slowly swung open.

Dawlish suddenly felt as if he were holding his grandmother in his arms, feeling her bleed out in front of him as the two thugs finished murdering his parents. He knew it wasn't real – he'd become an Auror to fight that feeling of helplessness, and he was an Auror now! But her blood was so cold, so cold...

Cold.

Dementor.

"Expecto Patronum!" he cried, and a draft horse, silver all over, leapt from his wand to where the thing hovered, leaning over Tonks. "Back, foul beast!" he bellowed, dragging Tonks from the room and slamming the door shut behind him. He shuddered, needing chocolate badly, and Tonks wasn't much better.

"And a Dementor," he said, breathing heavily. "That should be plenty to indict him."

**-o-o-o-**

"Lucius Malfoy," Kingsley spoke, his rolling baritone more authoritative than soothing. "You have been placed under apprehension by the Auror Office of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Under Ministry Decree Number 406, ratified by the entire Wizengamot, I am required to present you with your rights and explain what is happening. At this time, I am going to place you in magical restraints, for your own safety. Attempting to resist this apprehension will result in magical countermeasures, ranging from stunning to incapacitation to death. You do not have to say anything to me, or to any other member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand these rights as I have presented them to you?"

"Yes," Lucius spat. He wasn't entirely sure how Weasley had found everything. Surely, some of it had to come from Draco, but even his – now-disowned – son didn't know about half the hidden rooms the Aurors had found. One thing was for sure, he mused, he wasn't getting off with a light fine.

"You're nicked!" Tonks giggled, to Dawlish's scowl and mumble about lightweights. Neither had been able to find any chocolate in the kitchen, though they had found some chocolate liqueur, and assumed it couldn't hurt.

"What happens now?" Narcissa asked Shacklebolt. He shrugged.

"I can't speak for Madame Bones or Mr. Scrimgeour," he said, "But I would expect your house will be seized, along with most of your assets." He nodded at Lucius. "Your husband will be held at the Ministry, pending trial. Given his years of service, it's unlikely he'll be moved to Azkaban before his trial." He raised an eyebrow as Narcissa nodded matter-of-factly, pulled on a coat, and made to leave.

"And where are you going, Mrs. Malfoy?" he asked. She turned her head before leaving.

"To find a solicitor," she said. "A really good one."


	6. Train Rides and Plotting

**Author's Note:** J.K. Rowling gave Draco character development and gave me a world for him to play in. Sure, he hasn't been acting terribly Slytherin of late, but getting petrified by a giant snake will, apparently, do that to a person. Or so they tell me. It certainly has to be better than turning into a giant snake. It never helps.

**-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 5: Train Rides and Plotting**

_**In which Draco actually makes progress in identifying the full extent of his enemy, pretends to be a seer, and plans to fight a war.**_

"A Purple Heart just proves that were you smart enough to think of a plan, stupid enough to try it, and lucky enough to survive."  
>– Murphy's Laws of Combat<p>

**-o-o-o-**

Crammed into a compartment on the Hogwarts Express with Seamus, Blaise, Ginny, Tracey and Daphne, I checked my watch for about the third time this hour.

"What time is it, Draco?" Ginny asked, amused. I smirked.

"Well, Miss Weasley," I drawled, channeling the old Draco as best I could. "It seems to be just about that time." She grinned.

"Did my letter help?" she asked, impishly.

"I suspect it must have," I said. "And if your letter to my mother didn't, my letter to your father certainly did," I added. "Yes, it should be just about that time." Blaise and the others were looking at us like we'd grown separate heads.

"Look, I know you were out for most of the year," he said, "But what's her excuse?" She glared at him.

"We were just working on some really excellent revenge," Ginny said. "Something I figured you would understand, Blaise," she added, some of the force leaving her tone. He shrugged.

"Revenge I get. It's the leaving the rest out of it that leaves me blindsided," he said. I shrugged, as if to say, what can you do? "So what happened?" All humor left his face, and as the other three leaned in, I realized he wasn't entirely talking about the revenge. I glanced at Ginny, since most of it was her story to tell, and she nodded.

"The Dark Lord's coming back," I said. "He left something with my father, and it's what released the basilisk this year." Seamus paled underneath his freckles, Tracey gave an "eep" that was far more feminine than usual, and even the unflappable Daphne Greengrass raised an eyebrow. Blaise narrowed his eyes, calculatingly.

"How?" he asked. I nodded, considering how much to tell him. Ginny didn't know all about the Horcruxes yet. "We're working on that," I admitted, recalling a similar conversation just a few days prior with my godfather.

**-o-o-o-**

"Godfather?" I asked, peering around the unlocked door to his office. "I'm awake and all," I added lamely, kicking myself for not at least saying hello before heading off to the Room of Requirement to talk with Potter and his odd group of friends.

"Come in," my acerbic godfather drawled. "I was beginning to wonder if I still had a godson," he added. "I thought perhaps Madam Pomfrey's near-perfect record had finally failed her, and I should live out my days untroubled by swordfights in my living room." I rolled my eyes as I sat in front of his desk. He sat behind it, grading final papers with a quill full of red ink and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. I hung my head.

"I'm sorry I didn't come see you earlier," I said. He looked up, his eyes dark, and I wondered if he actually had missed me or was just being his usual self. I almost didn't hear him.

"I'm rather thrilled you're not dead, godson," he murmured, and I knew we'd be alright. He resumed grading papers, and I sat there, enjoying the quiet scratch of quill on parchment, before he continued. "You'll be pleased to know your classmates didn't learn much this year that you don't already know," he said. "Although that insufferable Granger girl was doing fairly well before she, like you, went and got herself petrified." He snorted. "You would think, without Weasley in my class and with Longbottom showing a remarkable dedication to not blowing himself up this semester, I would have had a quiet year," he said. "But no. Your little example of inter-house cooperation last year led to an inter-house disaster team in Finnegan and that Thomas boy from Gryffindor. A cheering potion isn't exactly supposed to be flammable, let alone explosive, but leave it to you dunderheads to find a way to prove me wrong," he said, stabbing the parchment with a flourish to leave a T at the top of some unfortunate fourth-year's essay. I waited until his pen was down before I asked my impertinent question.

"Did we learn any potions using basilisk venom as an ingredient?" I asked, attempting to go for innocent and ending up somewhere between foolish and cheeky instead. My godfather picked up the quill again, and looked at me like I'd just admitted to setting the Sorting Hat on fire.

"Basilisk venom is a Class C Non-tradeable substance," he said. "As such, it is not on the O.W.L. curriculum. Why do you ask?" he queried, dipping the nib in his well of red ink again.

"Because there's a hundreds-of-years-old basilisk corpse freshly decaying under this school," I reminded him. He snorted.

"Yes, in an abandoned chamber blocked by rocks, behind a door openable only by Parseltongue, in the sink column of a disused lavatory guarded by a hysterial, weeping apparition, with – since the Weasley twins got ahold of it – a sign on the door reading 'beware of the leopard!'" he spat. "Not to mention that Longbottom, who has absolutely no reason to be fond of me whatsoever, killed the beast and thus has rights to its corpse," he added. I nodded, as if these were all points I'd considered.

"Well, Longbottom generally goes along with Potter, and Potter's a Parselmouth," I said. "You could ask him to help you recover the beast, and pay Longbottom the wholesale out of the school's funds." My godfather sneered.

"Potter," he spat, "has even less reason to provide me a favor than Longbottom, and the feeling is, quite obviously, mutual." He shook his head, obviously annoyed at the loss of such valuable potions ingredients, and poured himself a few fingers of something I assumed was firewhiskey. I smirked.

"You could bribe him," I said. He snorted.

"On a teacher's salary?" he asked, incredulous. "In any event, Potter's miscreant father was quite well off; I don't know what I could possibly offer him." I waited until he'd raised the tumbler to his lips.

"You could offer to help destroy the Dark Lord's Horcruxes," I said, and was rewarded with the completely expected sight of Severus Snape shooting firewhiskey out of his greasy, protruding nose.

"The Dark Lord's what now?" he sputtered. "What is a Horcrux?" he asked, attempting to hide his knowledge of the darkest of magics, and failing entirely. I rolled my eyes.

"Godfather, I did grow up a Malfoy," I said. "Horcrux. A dark magic in which, through murder, a piece of one's soul is hidden, preventing one from dying." I grabbed a tumbler over his protests, pouring firewhiskey for myself. "I suspect the Dark Lord had at least one, since he was able to last long enough to possess Quirrell last year," I said. "And that diary that possessed Ginny Weasley and Theo Nott sounded far too similar for me to ignore," I added. He nodded, rubbing his head.

"But it's destroyed now, isn't it?" he said. "The essence within the diary would have been consumed when it consumed Nott, letting Voldemort live again." I shook my head.

"I don't think it was the only one," I said. "Lucius always said the Dark Lord spoke of how he'd gone further in his pursuit of magic and immortality than any wizard in history, and I'm pretty sure Herpo the Foul made at least two." My godfather poured himself a double.

"We should tell Dumbledore," he grumbled. I nodded.

"We could do that," I agreed, "or we could act like Slytherins, and have all the information and all the cards stacked in our favor before we manipulate that old Gryffindor into finishing our job for us." I smirked. "Personally, I have a feeling I wouldn't be involved at all the moment he heard about it, and you'd probably end up doing grunt work behind enemy lines." My godfather groaned at me.

"I suppose you're right," he admitted. "I'll start digging into Voldemort's memories. See if you can't find us some more information on that front before we get home for summer," he added. "And what's all this nonsense about your last name? Lockhart seemed convinced you'd changed it to FitzMalfoy or something before his untimely demise." I rolled my eyes, and produced an official-looking envelope. "What is that?" my godfather asked, glaring at it like it was James Potter reborn or something.

"A cease and desist order," I drawled. "From my father's solicitor. Apparently I have a year to stop calling myself a Malfoy or face criminal prosecution." My godfather placed his head in his hands.

"Of all the petty... when did he send it?" he asked. I shrugged.

"Sometime while I was petrified," I said, "which really goes to show you the tact of my father's legal staff." My godfather snorted.

"Lack thereof, more likely," he said. "What do you plan to do about it?" I shook my head.

"Given the likely return of the Dark Lord, I'll count myself lucky if I, my father, and my father's solicitor are all still _alive_ in a year's time," I said drily.

**-o-o-o-**

"So how sure are you he'll be coming back, then?" Seamus asked, back on the train. "I mean, we're all pretty sure he died after he killed Potter's parents," he added. I raised an eyebrow.

"My godfather is convinced, and the Headmaster is as well," I said. "So I'm pretty sure." Blaise shook his head.

"That's going to make things complicated," he understated. Ginny tilted her head.

"What do you mean?" she asked. Daphne, no stranger to politics, answered.

"He means there will be a pretty strong rift within Slytherin," she said, and Tracey nodded.

"Nott isn't an issue anymore," she said, coloring slightly, "and Crabbe and Goyle are pretty useless on their own. But the upper years – and some of the younger ones – are going to be divided," she said. Ginny nodded.

"What does that mean for us, then?" Seamus asked.

"We'll have to be ready to defend ourselves," he said. "Not exactly guaranteed after Lockhart and Quirrel." Ginny snorted.

"That's for sure," she agreed. "Got any ideas?"

Blaise and I looked at each other. No doubt he was thinking of our dueling practice first year and over the summer. I, on the other hand, remembered the trouble Potter's little homework club gave Umbridge and the Inquisitorial Squad our fifth year, the first time around – and even more so, Longbottom and Ginny's revival during our seventh. Either way, however, our thoughts ran fairly parallel, and we grinned.

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Note:** So here we are, leaving second year behind. Up until now, the changes from canon have been pretty slight, and our villains haven't had much active reaction to Draco's effort. All that changes come third year. In canon, the first year introduced most of the characters, the second year laid the seeds for all the plot to come (re-read the series after having finished _Deathly Hallows_, and goggle like I did at the many, many things foreshadowed in _Chamber of Secrets_). The third year is where everything started to happen. Pettigrew escapes to resurrect Voldemort, Sirius and Lupin are introduced, Lucius Malfoy's influence is revealed (he was introduced back in second year, but until now, Draco's 'my father will hear about this!' threats were pretty toothless), and the series tends to pick up a bit. In third year, too, we learn that the ministry isn't exactly as benevolent as some people think it is – we got a hint of that in _Chamber of Secrets_ with Hagrid's arrest, but meeting Fudge for the first time kind of hammers that in. Anyway, if you're still reading with me, keep on keeping on. Life's going to get interesting pretty quick. The cast is mostly introduced; the seeds for plot laid. Now comes the rest.


	7. Field Training

**Author's Note:** Sometimes, in a great once in a while, a world is born within the ether. This one belongs to J.K. Rowling, and its assorted Slytherins, Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors and Ravenclaws are pretty much all hers. I'm pretty sure I haven't included any original characters as yet, except Mr. Malfoy's unnamed solicitor – but as far as I am concerned, Rowling can have him, too.

**-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 6: Field Training**

_**In which Severus Snape is further manipulated by a couple teenagers and is not as bitter as he seems, we enjoy the return of Remus Lupin even if Snape does not, and everything prepares to go completely to pot.**_

"No combat ready unit ever passed inspection."  
>– Murphy's Laws of Combat<p>

**-o-o-o-**

"You want me to do what?" my godfather asked Blaise and I, a week later at Spinner's End. We'd just returned from a bit of catching up with our fencing, since I'd been unconscious for most of the year and Blaise felt my muscle memory probably needed some refreshing. Really, I was just thankful he was still talking to me, since I only needed both hands for the second part of the duel – something he found out when I suddenly lunged a good three feet deeper than he expected, dropping him on his arse.

"Well, you remember how Lockhart was a fraud?" Blaise asked. No respect for the dead, apparently, but then, did any of us? My godfather nodded carefully.

"Obviously," he drawled, "since I had to endure a year's worth of staff meetings with the pompous oaf." Blaise nodded in agreement.

"Well, a few of your second- and third-year Slytherins suspect it might be useful to have some proper grounding in basic defense techniques," he said. My godfather snorted.

"And you learned nothing from Quirrel your first-year?" he asked, clearly taking it for granted that none of us had learned anything from Lockhart. I shook my head.

"Well, he had the Dark Lord stuck in the back of his head," I drawled. "It does tend to make us doubt his credibility." My godfather's sneer grew into something resembling a smirk.

"If I were to agree to such a Gryffindorish notion," he said, "where were you planning on holding this little educational soiree?" He looked around the cramped sitting room. "After all, even if I were interested in having more than the one, or occasionally two," he raised an eyebrow at Blaise, "teenagers running around this place, it's hardly large enough for spell drills." I cleared my throat.

"Actually, we've had two offers," I said. "Chåteau Zabini," I started.

"Obviously," my Godfather said. "And?"

"The Burrow," I mumbled.

"The what now?" he asked.

"The Burrow. The Weasley house." He raised one eyebrow, in a move perfected over years of barely-suppressed sarcastic response.

"Molly Weasley actually invited a group of Slytherins to practice magic, in direct contravention of the Reasonable Restriction for Underage Wizardry, on her family's property?" he asked, obviously incredulous. I swallowed.

"Well, no," Blaise admitted. "But she did invite her older son's friend to stay for the summer, on the grounds that she'd make sure they both did their summer homework, and Ginny is pretty sure she can convince her mum that this is the same thing." My godfather continued to favor us with a blank look for a moment, then surprised us both by actually laughing.

"I suddenly realize why that damnable hat put her in my house," he said, when he'd calmed down a bit, then he became stern. "And what are the other reasons you want me to teach you Defense?" he asked. Of course, I realized, very few Slytherins ever did anything for just one reason. Blaise and I looked at each other, and I nodded.

"Well, there's the likelihood that the Dark Lord is returning," Blaise said, "and that means a rift in Slytherin worse than the one this year by a long shot." Snape nodded.

"And you want to be able to defend yourself," he finished. Blaise nodded.

"Well, given that our little group of half-bloods, blood traitors and neutral families are likely to be pretty tempting targets, yes," he agreed. Snape shook his head.

"You're going to want to continue this throughout the school year," he said. Blaise and I nodded, but my godfather continued shaking his head. "It would be most impolitic of me to continue to step on your Defense teacher's toes, as it were, once the school year begins," he said. "After all, I took great relish in kicking that worthless ponce, Lockhart, out of my potions lab, despite whatever expertise he claimed to have in antidotes to Amortentia." He tilted his head.

"Actually, given his fan base, he might actually have been telling the truth there," my godfather ruefully admitted. "Not that it matters now," he said. "But no, until Headmaster Dumbledore actually allows me to instruct in Defense Against the Dark Arts, I won't take someone else's job like that." I shrugged.

"Who's the DADA teacher, then?" I asked. "I heard you took the last few weeks after Lockhart died." He nodded.

"So I did, but on a temporary basis only, as did the Headmaster when I had Potions to deal with," he said. "And in answer to your question, I believe the Headmaster has asked Remus Lupin to teach this year," he added, sneering slightly. "Penniless vagrant man that he is, he is apparently a fairly competent tutor when he can find employment."

I nodded, remembering Lupin teaching the first time around with slight distaste – the boggart lesson revealed a little more than I wanted about myself – and, with slightly more warmth, recalled the memory of Lupin finding my godfather for me after Lucius kicked me out.

"So why don't you ask him to help us," I asked. "I'm sure he would for the prospect of Weasley cooking, and it might give Ginny's negotiations with her mother more legitimacy than you would," I said, then gulped as I realized what I'd just said. "No offense, of course," I added. My godfather smiled sardonically.

"Obviously," he said. "I suppose I can contact the overly-conciliatory jack-a-napes vagabond."

"Can he be trusted?" Blaise blurted out, obviously wanting to be included. My godfather smirked.

"He's Dumbledore's man through and through," he said. "So he's not likely to sell your little homework club out to Death Eaters, if that's what you're asking." Blaise shook his head.

"I'm more worried about the Ministry," he admitted. Snape grinned, predatorially.

"I'm afraid the competence and usefulness of the Ministry of Magic is one more place where certain itinerant tutors and I agree completely, few and far between as those instances are," he said.

**-o-o-o-**

"No, Weasley, you need to twist the wand like this," my godfather snapped, moving Ron Weasley's arm. "You have the incantation down for _expelliarmus_, but your wand movement is going to betray you in the long term, especially when you attempt it nonverbally in your N.E.W.T. classes," he added, sneering. "Go! Practice it another twenty times, and get it down or I'll switch your dueling from Granger to Davis," he said, motioning to where Tracey Davis had enthusiastically blown up a training dummy with a Reductor curse. Weasley paled and started concentrating, while my Godfather stalked over to me.

"How did I ever let you dunderheads talk me into teaching Gryffindors as well?" he asked, throwing his hands up in the air. A well-natured chuckle came from behind me.

"Presumably because Molly threatened to appeal to Dumbledore if you didn't include Ronald, Severus," Lupin said, correcting Daphne Greengrass' wand movement far more gently. "And it's good practice, since if you get the job next year, you'll have to teach all four houses," he admonished to my godfather's grumbling.

"You're not staying more than the year, Professor Lupin?" Granger asked. He shook his head sadly.

"My contract is only for a year, Hermione" he said. "Apparently there's a curse on the position. After several of his teachers dying, the headmaster is not taking any chances trying to sign me on any longer," he added ruefully. "Now, why don't you go over and spar with Draco so he doesn't evesdrop any more today." I grinned; it wasn't as if I were trying to be subtle.

"Formal dueling rules, or just go?" I asked. Snape scowled.

"Are you attempting to learn formal dueling, or how to defend yourself?" he asked. "Just go, obviously. Last one standing wins. Try to avoid killing each other on the Weasley's lawn," he added as an afterthought. I smirked, though it left my face almost immediately as Granger yelled "_diffindo!_" and a spell whistled past my cheek.

"_Serpensortia!_" I bellowed, summoning a large constrictor snake. I didn't want Granger killed, after all, but getting multiple targets in front of me on the battlefield is a time-honored way of not getting cut by a thirteen-year-old girl. "_Rictumsempra! Serpensortia!_" I missed with the tickling jinx, unfortunately, giving my Potions partner a chance to launch a series of cutting hexes at one of the two serpents now flanking her. The other hissed, striking at her leg, which quickly moved out of the way.

"Can't dodge forever," I said, lining up a shot with a disarming charm.

"Didn't plan on it," she said. "_Confundus!_" she added, and I ducked – but it wasn't aimed at me. She charged toward me, and suddenly my second snake was between us, striking out at anything that moved.

"Excellent, Hermione!" Lupin cheered. "Flitwick would be proud!" I scowled, blasting a small crater in the sod to launch me away from my sudden liability. I should have thought of it – if Granger could Confound a snake in combat, a Death Eater – or an older Slytherin – could certainly _imperio _anything I conjured. I launched around to face her, the snake between us, hissing angrily in its confusion.

"_Incendio!_"I smirked, reducing the conjured creature to ash. Then my wand went flying out of my hand.

"Finally got it right," Ron Weasley said, smirking. Then his face fell as his own wand flew behind him. I turned to see Ginny behind me, holding my wand in her hand and her own leveled at her brother. "Oi! Little traitor!" Weasley complained.

"Two on two's fair," Ginny said, then her face fell. "Oh bugger, duck!" I did, and felt a bludgeoning hex go by. I turned the duck into a somersault, rolling out of it to grab my wand from Ginny and turning with a disarming spell of my own as Granger returned Weasley's wand to him. I missed, and the two of us broke apart, circling the Gryffindors as Granger put up a shield charm.

"Give it up, Granger," I called. "You and I are matched, and Weasley can't hope to compete with us," I added. Not entirely true, as I was more than a match for third-year Granger in a real fight, but since we were staying non-lethal, it was close enough. "Oh, and _incarcerous_," I lazed, wrapping her shield charm in steel cable and causing the spell to flicker with light, beginning to overload it.

"He's got a year on Ginny, Draco," Granger called back. "And he disarmed you!" That was true, of course, but only because I hadn't seen him coming.

"Anyone can do that with surprise," Blaise said, pulling up on the other side of the Gryffindors along with Tracey and Daphne. "And you're surrounded and outnumbered, by the way."

"_Stupefy!_" two voices called, and Tracey and Daphne dropped. "Now who's outnumbered?" Fred – or possibly George – Weasley called from where the twins were leaning against a tree, watching the mock fight. "Urk!" the other one contributed, as ropes conjured from thin air wrapped themselves around the twins and the tree, immobilizing them. Seamus dropped from the branches.

"Still you guys," he said, twirling his wand as he moved to join Blaise.

"Well," said a pompous voice, as the owner moved with aristocratic grace around the outside of the circle. "A gentleman would step in to make this fair," Percy Weasley said. "And as the Head Boy must always be a gentleman, I suppose he must then step in." His full-of-himself smile vanished to a look of grim business. "_Incendiaros!_" he called, and a ring of fire surrounded the circle.

"That's not good," I observed. "_Glacius!_" I called back, knowing the rules had changed with the seventh-year joining the fray. Blaise and Seamus looked at me incredulously as my conjured ice met the Head Boy's flame. With grim determination, I kept the chilly wall between the three of us and the incoming fire while my companions recovered their wits. "Any time now," I gritted out between my teeth.

"_Aguamenti!_" Blaise called out, driving back one side.

"_Aguamenti!_" Seamus echoed, driving back the other. When the two parts met over Percy, there was an explosion of water, drenching the former Prefect to general cheering.

"_Stupefy!_" two voices called out, the spell's limited wand motions making it easy enough for both Granger and the second-youngest Weasley to pick up without further instruction. I suspected, as Blaise and Seamus dropped beside me, that was why the twins had used it.

"Forgot about us," Ron Weasley said, smugly, before a stunner to the back of the head dropped him, his smirk frozen on his face.

"Forgot about _me_," Ginny said from behind him, dodging Granger's _petrificus totalus_ with ease. I figured now was a good enough time to join back, banishing the conjured ice toward Granger and dropping her to the floor. Ginny kicked her wand away from her, and I walked toward my partner in crime, raising my wand in salute. She matched it, then –

"_Expelliarmus!_" she cried, and my wand went flying again. "_Petrificus totalus!_" she added for good measure, and as I was falling to the ground, the youngest of our little band smiled. "Snape said 'last one standing,' " she gloated, and bowed to my godfather elaborately, earning a sardonic little clap from the Potions master as he released the rest of us from our respective enchantments.

Lupin joined him in the task, even casting a drying charm on Percy.

"Breaking rules now, Weasley?" my godfather asked the Head Boy. Percy met his eyes firmly.

"Ginny says He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is coming back," he said, matter-of-fact. "He killed my Penelope. I don't intend to stand on the sidelines and let him kill my family too." Snape raised an eyebrow at the ambitious Gryffindor.

"And the Ministry?" he asked. "Professor McGonagall tells me you plan to work there next year, if your N.E.W.T.s are up to the same level as your O.W.L.s." Percy looked taken aback for a moment, as if confused as to why the dour Potions Master would know what his plans are after Hogwarts, but his face quickly shifted back into resolve.

"Bugger the Ministry," Percy Weasley said, and my respect for him went up exponentially. The twins were, of course, quick to join in.

"Yeah!" Fred – or George – agreed.

"Bugger the Ministry!" the other cheered. Lupin cleared his throat.

"While I tend to agree, and applaud your dedication to family," he said, "I would caution that printing that on a tee shirt, as I'm sure the two of you are off to do, would be somewhat unwise at this juncture." The twins deflated.

"Aww," they whinged simultaneously.

**-o-o-o-**

The summer wound on, and we covered not only the first- and second-year curriculum, bringing us up to speed from Lockhart, but also practiced aiming drills and, surprisingly, the basics of Muggle hand-to-hand combat. Granger had, apparently, begun some form of self-defense course, and after she threw Weasley in a duel _after_ being disarmed, we all clamored for her to show us how.

Eventually, our lessons expanded. A month into the summer, Lovegood wandered into the Burrow from Salazar knows where, and by the next lesson, Longbottom had joined the petite Ravenclaw, along with the twins' friend Lee Jordan.

"Look, Severus," I heard Arthur Weasley telling my godfather one night as we all sat down to one of Molly Weasley's famous picnic dinners. "It's not that I'm against my children learning to defend themselves, and obviously we're glad to hear the twins, Ron and Ginny won't be completely hopeless on their O.W.L.s since you and Remus began teaching them," he said, and my godfather inclined his head in thanks. "But if this gets any bigger, I won't be able to hide it from the Ministry any more. I'm having trouble talking about my home life at work as it is – Dirk Cresswell over in the Goblin Liaison Office seems to think Molly's abusing me, since I keep refusing to answer simple pleasantries. Apparently I'm some sort of henpecked husband." My godfather snorted, and I had neither the heart nor the plausible excuse to tell Mr. Weasley that's how most people saw him, especially if they'd never actually observed the Weasley dynamic for more than a few moments.

I admit, those first few weeks around the Weasleys were awkward at best. I'd spent something like nineteen years learning to, if not hate, at least look down on their family for being poor. In the last few, I'd gained a grudging respect for them – seeing a fifty-year-old housewife take down the most feared Dark witch of at least the last hundred years will do that whether one wants it or not – but I certainly never imagined I'd be sitting down with Ginny and Percy for fried chicken in the backyard of the Burrow.

I knew Mr. Weasley's pride would never let him complain about the strain our group likely put on his food budget, but I doubted he or Mrs. Weasley would mind if we happened to show up bearing side dishes or raw materials. We managed to sneak them in surreptitiously until Seamus showed up one day with a whole turkey, with predictable, explosive results. Mrs. Weasley's temper and pride were legendary; combined with Seamus' remarkable proclivity for pyrotechnics, an outburst was inevitable. But Lupin was able to calm her down with the power of logical argument – since we were ten more mouths to feed on a regular basis, it was only right that we brought something to offset our appetites. After that, an atmosphere of potluck prevailed – even my godfather found himself badgered into bringing some meatloaf, after Tracey and Blaise got through with him.

But Mr. Weasley's concern about legal matters was harder to deal with – for one thing, it had the issue of being born in fact, rather than in pride. Still, half of our group were Slytherins. Even if I couldn't just wave money at it until it went away anymore, we still had our cunning – and our contacts. Daphne spoke with her father, who sat on the Wizengamot, and Blaise with his mother, who donated a substantial sum of money to the Retired Aurors' Fund each year, and by the following lesson, we were legally covered by a summer teaching contract to use magic within the property boundaries of the Burrow. Mr. Weasley had no idea how it happened, missing Daphne and Blaise's shared look of satisfaction.

We almost hit a snag one afternoon, however. Granger, ever ridiculously eager to learn more, brought up the subject of potions with our instructors.

"Well, wouldn't some of the more common healing potions be useful in defending ourselves?" she asked. "Not to mention Exploding or Fulminating potions," she added, clearly having delved at least as deep as I had in _Advanced Potion-Making_. Snape shrugged.

"My lab is not large enough for this whole group," he said. "And quite frankly, I wouldn't allow Longbottom in it regardless," he added, before remembering he was supposed to be getting on the boy's good side to gain access to the basilisk corpse. "Meaning no house bias, Longbottom," he said to general surprise. "I don't intend to let Finnegan into my lab either." That brought a laugh, even from the much-maligned Irishman and the self-esteem challenged Gryffindor.

"You've seen me in the lab, Professor," Granger said, completely immodestly. "Have I ever melted or blown up a cauldron without someone else's, ahem, help?" she boasted. I felt fairly guilty; in the first time 'round, I'd been one of the so-called 'helpers.' Now, I suspected Crabbe and Goyle were to blame. My godfather nodded his agreement.

"Granger, I can teach, if she can admit that she does not, in fact, know everything already," he said. "Draco, you as well," he added. "Miss Weasley, you seem to be less of a menace than most of your family in the lab. You may join us as well, as may your eldest present brother," he added. Percy wasn't with us at this point, visiting with his father at the Ministry. Now that we were all above-board, his "Bugger the Ministry" didn't seem as applicable – but I hoped he'd keep that attitude in a few years, if Fudge couldn't be deposed before then.

Looking over the rest of us, my Godfather's voice fell on Fred and George. They smiled in what I suspect they imagined were winning, jaunty grins.

"No," my godfather said, without even letting them ask the question. "Not now, not ever." Their faces fell. Lupin clapped them on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, boys," he said. "I have no doubt that we'll find something to learn here while the rest are stuck in the lab." The twins grinned, and I fought a smile. Something about Lupin led me to believe he wasn't exactly the stuffy, respectable person he presented himself as, and I worried about the havoc the Terrors of Gryffindor could wreak on the school with the help of an actually-qualified adult.

"Can I join you?" Lovegood said. "I want to learn the Wolfsbane Potion," she added, and the room went silent.

"Luna, that's well past N.E.W.T. level," Granger said, gently. I wasn't going to volunteer anything, though I saw the tight look on my godfather's face and the nearly-stricken look on Lupin's. Lovegood smiled up at her, innocently.

"But what if something happens to Professor Snape?" she said, and I didn't quite follow. "Who will make the Wolfsbane Potion for Professor Lupin then?" Weasley snorted.

"Now what would Professor Lupin need the..." he looked at the professor, who's face was ashen. "Wolfsbane Potion for?" he finished lamely. "Professor?"

"I'll just leave, then," he said quietly. "I'll let Dumbledore know I can't teach this year," he added, heading toward the door. He was stopped by Molly Weasley, Granger, and, surprisingly, my Godfather.

"Don't be ridiculous, Lupin," he said. "Where else is the Headmaster going to find someone half-way qualified to teach Defense at this late stage?" Lupin glared at him.

"You can teach it," he said flatly. My godfather snorted, conceding the point.

"Potions, then. I don't know another available Potions master," he said. Lupin shook his head.

"Call Slughorn out of retirement," he said firmly and sadly. "No one's going to want a – well, one of my kind teaching their kids." He glared at my godfather. "Honestly, Severus, I would have thought you'd be glad to see me go." My godfather grimaced.

"I..." he said, then closed his eyes, as if whatever he was going to say was incredibly painful. "What happened that night was not your fault, Lupin," he said, and I was sure only the adults and myself could hear it. "Black was entirely to blame, budding sociopath that he was." Here, he spat at the floor. "Black and my own foolishness," he amended. Lupin looked shocked, but fought it back as a mild sneer crossed my godfather's face. "That doesn't mean I've forgiven you for the rest of your so-called Marauders' shenanigans where I am concerned," he said, and Lupin had the courtesy to bow his head in acknowledgement, "but I refuse to blame you for being a werewolf." Lupin smiled that thin little smile.

"That's uncommonly decent of you, Severus," he said, "and I'm certain we could work past our other issues. However," he added, "One man's acknowledgement of that fact does not mean the rest of the world will be so reasonable." His lips turned up ruefully. "I can think of at least one senior undersecretary to the Minister who would be calling for my hide nailed to her office door if she found out what I was," Lupin said. Mrs. Weasley put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Don't be ridiculous, Remus," she said. "Arthur's told me all about that horrible woman. Who's going to tell her? We're certainly not," she vowed, and her quick look around the room challenged anyone to disagree. Surprisingly, Daphne spoke up.

"My father has abstained from every single Wizengamot bill regulating werewolf activity since he took his seat," she said. "I have to admit, finding out Professor Lupin is a werewolf is likely to make him stop doing that." Lupin hung his head, mouthing 'I told you so' to my godfather and the Weasleys, until Daphne continued. "But since he can't stand that Umbridge toad – please, don't assume I don't know who you're talking about – he's more likely to come down against her. Especially if he meets you," she added. She gestured to the rest of us, mirroring Mrs. Weasley's dare to disagree.

"Me ma always said not to judge," Seamus said. "'Supposed to keep me out of trouble, I think." He paused. "Professor Snape's going to be brewing him Wolfsbane, yeah?" My godfather nodded. "And he's going to be locked up during the full moon?" he asked, and Lupin nodded slowly. "Then I doubt me ma will have much of a problem with it," he confirmed. "She's a reasonable lady, really, unless you say something 'bout her cooking."

"What Seamus said," Tracey agreed.

"No doubt you've already gleaned this from our mother's comments," Ron Weasley said, imitating Percy in his absence, "But the Weasleys are behind you one hundred percent." He grinned that irritating grin of his.

"Here, here," Ginny agreed.

"Bugger the Ministry!" the twins chorused gleefully. Ruddy little anarchists, but I couldn't help but be amused by them, Gryffindors though they were.

"If the _Prophet_ makes trouble for you, Daddy will make sure your side is supported in the press," Lovegood said, and Longbottom nodded next to her. "And I'm sure, once you've started teaching, the whole of Ravenclaw will be behind you," she added. "Some of us want to actually pass our O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s."

"Here, here," Granger cheered, grimly enthusiastic, obviously forming some half-arsed scheme for an activist society with an unfortunate acronym. Oh, bugger, I thought. Werewolf starts with a W. I might end up being recruited into SPEW or something like this. Or HURL, if she used Lupin's initials. Or something.

"Like I'm going to disagree with the rest of my house when they're right," Longbottom said, somewhat more confidently than the third-year Neville Longbottom I'd tormented the first time around. "And they are right, you know," he said. "Can't let fear get to you. Weren't you a Gryffindor?" he asked Lupin, who nodded.

"I could be the only dissenting voice if I chose," Blaise said, "but even if I didn't have some respect for Professor Lupin personally, I certainly agree with Granger and Lovegood. I'm not telling anyone. And my mother's fairly good at keeping secrets herself, should you want additional political backing."

"See?" I said. "Even Blaise is behind you." Lupin looked at me oddly just then, as if he was seeing something that confused him. "And I owe you several for dinner those nights," I added, buffing my fingernails on my robes, wishing I had glasses to clean. "Your secret's safe with me."

"I'm overwhelmed," Lupin said, and as Salazar is my witness, I think I saw a tear forming at the corner of his amber eyes. "Of course I'll stay. Just..." he trailed off, before collecting himself. "I sincerely doubt I'll be able to keep the secret the whole year," he said. "Someone is bound to pick up on it, if Luna did." Snape grimaced.

"I highly doubt that, Lupin," he said, "Lovegood tends to look at things sideways, drawing truth and highly-illogical, but often correct, conclusions from leaps of logic that baffle anyone thinking in a half-way conventional manner." His grimace stayed on his face, as if the very act of paying a half-backhanded compliment to any student was distasteful. Lovegood, of course, beamed, and I shook my head in amusement.

"Then it's settled," Mrs. Weasley said. "Percy, Ginny, Hermione, Luna and Draco will join Severus for Potions for the second half of lessons. The rest will join Remus." She paused, as if remembering something. "Oh, and Harry is supposed to be joining us next week," she said. "I assume you'll want him to go with Remus?" she asked my godfather. He was about to agree wholeheartedly when I gave him a knowing glare as a reminder of his basilisk issue, and he deflated.

"I don't think Potter's up to the more advanced potions," he said. "But I am willing to take him for a few of the more basic healing potions." Lupin nodded.

"Excellent," he said. "And while you're teaching them to blow stuff up and heal the damage," he said, a glint of mischief in his eye, "I'll be seeing whether or not McGonagall has lost her touch. Transfiguration," he announced. "Make sure you bring your familiars next week."

Naturally, that was when everything went wrong.

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Note: **More rising action. I'm kind of going slowly here, I realize, but such is the nature of the beast. In any event, yes, Harry still blows up Aunt Marge and storms off, but as the Weasleys spent the summer at home instead of going to Egypt due to Ginny's volunteering their house for instruction, Fudge doesn't worry about him and insist he stay at the Leaky Cauldron for the rest of summer. The Weasleys, then, will be off to pick him up after some off-screen hijinks. As for the continuing question of Draco being a little, well, friendlier than canon, a reminder: Canon already happened to him. He was already broken down from that, then proceeded to get called out on his actions by a hat, shat his pants facing Voldemort, was disowned by his family and spent a summer being relatively poor, got petrified, and has been exposed to a month or so of Molly Weasley's cooking – which may qualify as a mood-altering substance if canon is to be believed. We call this phenomenon "character growth." As for Snape's generally-more-positive outlook on life, having a kid to care for has prevented him from wallowing in his own self-loathing as much as usual. He's still a bitter young man and a snarky git, but Draco's growth is rubbing off on him a bit, and Lupin was always trying to be conciliatory in canon. Finally, one of my reviewers (in Last Second Chance) has asked whether Snape might be a time-traveller as well. The answer is no. Snape has many secrets – of his own and of Draco's – but that is not one of them. Draco is the only one who came back.


	8. Homorphous Charm

**Author's Note:** It was the end of the 20th Century. The Harry Potter project was a dream given form by J.K. Rowling. Its goal: to create a place where Wizading youth could learn magic and work out their differences peacefully. It's a port of call, home away from home for Ravenclaws, Slytherins, Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors. Students and staff wrapped in the two million, five hundred thousand bricks of Hogwarts Castle, all alone in Scotland. It can be a dangerous place, but it's our last, best hope for peace. This is the story of a Slytherin at War. The year is 1994. The name of the place is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

**-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 7: Homorphous Charm**

_**In which the much-heralded "all going to pot" actually happens, truths are revealed, and Severus Snape is forced to make nice with a childhood menace.**_

"When you have secured an area, don't forget to tell the enemy."  
>– Murphy's Laws of Combat<p>

**-o-o-o-**

The first day of Potions went about as expected. After a morning of accuracy drills at the Burrow, Granger, Lovegood, Ginny, Percy, my Godfather and I flooed back to Spinner's End with our Potions kit. Surprisingly, my godfather was much more patient with the five of us than usual, something that everyone but Percy seemed to find odd. I wondered, given that, if this was how he treated his N.E.W.T. students, then decided it must be as I'd never had N.E.W.T. classes with him.

"Granger, you're going to lose that unblemished cauldron record if you stir any more," he said, looking at her Polyjuice potion. "And it has to simmer for a month after this, so you're done for the day," he added. "We'll all floo back here to check it a week after school begins, and I expect it to be perfect." He looked over at my cauldron, where I was mixing a Burnmending Draught out of _Advanced Potion-Making. _Granger and I were obviously ahead of Ginny and Lovegood, though Percy was still a bit ahead of us, having completed a year of N.E.W.T. studies already.

"Not bad, Draco," he complimented. "You might consider adding additional extract of aloe vera, however," he criticized drily, "lest your potion heal the burns without taking away the pain." I nodded, following his advice. Admittedly, had I bothered to read his scribbled notes, I'd probably have done that already, but it was nice to have the attention.

"More capsacin powder, Lovegood," he said. "And don't skimp on the charcoal, either," he added, his expression approving as her potion turned from a light grey to a dark black, with an orange glow. "Yes, that's it," he said. "You as well, Weasley," he told Ginny, who was working on the same Exploding Potion. "Working with volatile ingredients is excellent practice for your O.W.L.s," he said, "and an absolute must if you're going to brew the Wolfsbane potion correctly." He pointed over to Percy, who was sweating over the difficult brew.

"You'll notice that even a hard-working N.E.W.T. student has some trouble with the Wolfsbane," my godfather said, "and he has had practice that a couple of second-years like yourselves cannot yet imagine." He glared over at Ginny's brother. "Be careful how you cut the monkshood, Weasley," he said. "Poor attention to detail will result in the potion failing to control the werewolf's beast or, more permanently, death to the unfortunate creature." Percy nodded slightly, all attention on the potion in front of him.

I have to admit, it was fun to be back in the lab. After missing a year of practice, I was sure Granger would have caught up to me, but to my surprise I was still fairly competitive in our little bet – and it was heartening to know I could still be better at something – Slytherin pride on the line and all that.

"Done," I said, and started gathering ingredients for an Exploding potion of my own. Granger nodded, and began to do the same.

"We should be able to finish these before we call it quits for the day," she said. "Challenge?" I grinned.

"Accepted," I said, and we began to brew. I noticed, as I carefully measured saltpeter and sulfer to match the small batch we were making. I considered, briefly, adding the oxidized iron and other ingredients which would make a Fulminating potion instead, but I didn't know if my godfather had enough aluminum powder, and anyway, it had a longer brewing time.

I glanced at Granger, and noticed the potion-brewing had made even more of a mess of her hair than usual. Even my short tufts felt greasy, and Lovegood and the Weasleys weren't any better off. My godfather, of course, looked as comfortable as usual despite the oils in his hair and on his skin, and I recalled that he didn't particularly care for his appearance during brewing. I wished I could convince him to tie his hair back or something, as Ginny and Lovegood had started doing. Granger's hair, of course, was as hopeless as usual.

Lily, perched on my godfather's shoulder, hooted at us, and I remembered just in time to add the charcoal. Checking my notes, I added the tiniest amount of dyed flour, and my potion turned a glowing green instead of orange. I noticed, however, that Granger had done the same – hers, understandably, turning a dark Gryffindor red.

"Bah. I need to learn how to do that," Ginny said, looking over at ours. "The green, of course," she said. Lovegood nodded.

"I wouldn't mind giving it a nice Ravenclaw blue," she said. "But can you make it more colorful overall?" My godfather came over.

"Not without destabilizing the potion," he said. "But there are other options for making colorful lights using this potion as a base," he added smoothly. "I won't be teaching them just at present, however," he said, moving over to me and Granger. "These are done," he proclaimed. "And well. Both on about the same level," he said, to Granger's evident surprise. "My compliments, Draco, Granger." He clapped his hands together once, getting our attention.

"Now that Weasley is done with the wolfsbane for the day, I believe that will end our lessons," he said. "You may leave your potions equipment here," he added, to my surprise. "There is an empty cabinet just there. Five minutes for clean-up, and then we'll floo to the Burrow." His stomach growled, and I hid a smile as I realized he'd grown accustomed to Mrs. Weasley's cooking.

**-o-o-o-**

We entered the sitting room of the Burrow to a scene of mildly controlled chaos. Furniture seemed to have been thrown everywhere, and we took our wands out immediately. Mrs. Weasley was unconscious on the floor, though we could see her still breathing, and Lupin had his wand out, pointing it straight between the eyes of a balding, overweight man in the center of the room. Unfortunately, the man had Ron Weasley's wand pointed at Ron Weasley's head, and it looked as if the standoff had been going on for some time.

"Put the wand down, Remus!" the man whined. "I swear, I don't want to hurt the boy – he's been a good owner – but I will if you don't put it down!" I could see the Dark Mark on his arms, what with his ragged clothing, but it took me a minute to place him. Lupin did it for me.

"The moment you do, I'll kill you, Peter," he snarled, and I could feel the wolf in the room. "For James and Lily, if for nothing else. You can't get away." Wormtail, then, I realized. Peter Pettigrew. I had absolutely no idea why he was here, of course. Maybe to kill Potter?

"Professor Lupin, no," Potter said, though his face was darker than I'd ever seen it. "Not until the Ministry has a chance to interrogate him." At that moment, however, a stunner hit the man in the back. In the confusion, Percy had managed to sneak around him. Weasley reclaimed his wand as Lupin added an _incarcerous_ and Longbottom a _petrificus totalus _to the spells binding the little Death Eater.

"What is going on?" my godfather asked, clearly trying to keep his voice level. "And _rennervate,_" he added, waking Mrs. Weasley. "Who is this Death Eater? And why is he here?" Weasley looked up at him.

"You didn't know him?" he said, bitter. "I thought you knew all the Death Eaters." My godfather sneered at him.

"Obviously, not all of us knew everyone else," he spat. "Otherwise no one would have escaped Azkaban after Karkaroff's little name-naming." He turned to glare at Lupin. "So I reiterate. Who. Is. That?" Lupin's glare, though no less fierce than my godfather's, was aimed at the unconscious man on the floor.

"Peter Pettigrew," he said. My godfather went absolutely still.

"I thought Black killed him," he said. "After he betrayed Lily. And Potter, I suppose," he added, clearly as an afterthought. I was going to have to get that story, apparently. Lupin nodded, never taking his eyes – or his wand – from the man on the floor.

"So did I," he said. "But obviously I was wrong." Longbottom crawled out from behind the couch, where he and the twins had clearly taken cover.

"Could it be someone under Polyjuice?" he asked. My godfather shook his head.

"Granger, field that question," he said. "You've been working with the stuff all day." She nodded, clearly glad for an opportunity to know everything, since she was clearly as out of her depth as the rest of us were otherwise.

"Polyjuice potion requires the hair from a living person," she recited. "It does not work on the dead." Lupin nodded. "Which means," she started, and he finished.

"Even if this is someone under Polyjuice potion, Peter is still alive out there. Plus," he added, kicking Pettigrew's left arm to fully expose the Dark Mark, "I have my doubts as to whether the potion could fake the Dark Mark. Severus? You're the expert here twice over," he conceded. My godfather shook his head.

"No," he said. "The mark is the product of the Protean Charm, and cannot be duplicated by Polyjuice." His voice was flat, as if every word he said was difficult, and I noticed his fingers kept twitching toward his own wand. "Whoever that is, Pettigrew or not, it is a Death Eater." He turned to Mrs. Weasley. "Call the Auror Office. Better yet," he said, thinking better of it, "Call your husband. Tell him to bring Amelia Bones directly." Mrs. Weasley nodded, moving past us toward the floo.

**-o-o-o-**

"Well," Madame Bones said, "Under the circumstances I want him interrogated before we attempt to transport him." Lupin nodded, and my godfather scowled. "It won't hold up in court, of course, but it will give us something to charge him with, and we can always administer Veritaserum to him again in front of the full Wizengamot."

I sat at the table with the other kids, talking quietly. More than an hour had passed, so we were, by then, fairly certain our captive was not, in fact, under the Polyjuice potion. When I saw Lupin send my godfather back to Spinner's End for Veritaserum, I spoke up.

"Longbottom, can you get your grandmother here?" I asked. He nodded. "Do it, please," I said. He nodded, looking across to where Blaise and Potter still had wands on the captive Pettigrew. "Daphne, your father, if you can," I added, and she left for the floo. "Lovegood?" I looked at the dreamy-eyed Ravenclaw.

"Yes, Draco Not-Really-Malfoy?" she asked, and I grimaced a bit.

"Just Draco," I said. "Can you get your father here before they get back?" She considered the question.

"I suppose I could, Just Draco, but how will you differentiate between Lovegoods?" I rolled my eyes.

"I can call you Luna," I deadpanned. "It's been known to happen." She smiled at me.

"But I haven't even given you a challenge in Quidditch yet," she said. "Isn't that the criterion for a first-name basis with you, Just Draco?" My eyes reached new heights of rolling, and I considered attempting the world-famous Snape Family Facepalm, but decided against it. After all, I wasn't really a Snape, and my godfather probably had the facepalm protected under the Berne convention, for all the good that did.

"Just get your father, Luna. Tell him to bring a quill." She smiled, and started to skip out the door.

"I'll go with her," Ginny said. "We can get there faster on a broom, and Mr. Lovegood can side-along us back here." I nodded, wishing I had mine with me instead of the clunky old things in the Weasley closet, but suddenly felt ashamed to be thinking that.

"Madame Bones?" I asked, and she looked up.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked. I grimaced.

"Please, just Draco," I said. "I'm under cease-and-desist orders to find a new last name, after all." I tried for a smile, given the circumstances. "Wouldn't it be better to have a couple Aurors along?" She nodded.

"I have a few I can trust for something like this," she said. "But most of them are on assignment." I nodded, as if considering the problem.

"What about Kingsley Shacklebolt and John Dawlish?" I asked, and grinned cheekily at her confused look. "I heard they investigated my father's house, and wanted to thank them in person," I added, and she relaxed, apparently satisfied that my ulterior motive was overall harmless.

"Certainly," she agreed. "Dawlish is out of town, but Shacklebolt should be available." She, too, went to the floo, and I resolved to find a way to replenish the Weasley's limited supply of floo powder before I returned to Hogwarts.

"Let me–" Pettigrew started.

"_Stupefy_!" Potter and Blaise said, knocking him out again with twin looks of satisfaction. Blaise had, apparently, gotten a bit vicious over the year I'd been gone.

"Well done, Potter," Blaise complimented.

"Thank you, Zabini," Potter said. "You as well."

In short order, Longbottom and Daphne arrived with their respective family members, as did Madame Bones with Shacklebolt and a pink-haired woman in trainee robes that I almost recognized as my cousin, Nymphadora Tonks. I'd never actually spoken to the woman, of course, seeing as she was blasted off the Black family tree and my mother only mentioned her sister and her daughter in passing, but there was enough Black in her heart-shaped face and observant eyes for me to recognize her. As my godfather stepped out of the floo with a carefully-padded crate of Veritaserum, Madame Bones took over.

"I'm not sure how you got two members of the Wizengamot here," she said, "but I suppose this interrogation may actually count as evidence. Assuming you and Augusta are willing to stand witness, Jonathan?" she asked Daphne's father, who nodded.

"Of course," he said. "Always glad to see justice done," he added, looking intently at Pettigrew's Dark Mark.

"As am I, of course," Augusta Longbottom said, glaring at Pettigrew. "Assuming there is a member of the press here as an observer, for transparency." Madame Bones' shoulders dropped.

"I'd forgotten about that part momentarily," she admitted. "I hadn't expected to be able to use this for anything but probable cause." At that moment, Ginny, Luna and an older gentleman dressed in the oddest robes I'd ever seen walked through the front door.

"I was told you needed a journalistic observer?" he asked. "Xenophilius Lovegood, editor of the _Quibbler_, at your service," he added, offering his hand for Madame Bones to shake, surprised. "I assume you have a qualified Potions Master to administer the Veritaserum?" My godfather raised an eyebrow.

"Present," he said. Lovegood nodded.

"And I see we have two members of the Auror Office present, as required by Ministry regulation," he said, nodding at Shacklebolt and Tonks and flatly ignoring her trainee robes. "Court scribe?" he asked, looking at Madame Bones, who shrugged.

"We could wait until Arthur gets back," she said uncertainly. Percy cleared his throat self-importantly.

"According to Ministry regulations, the presiding officer – that would be you, Madame Bones – can appoint any presently-employed member of the Ministry of Magic not attached to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as court scribe," he said. "I'm an intern," he clarified for our understanding. "Will that do?" She nodded, and Lovegood grinned.

"Well, then!" he said. "It looks like we're all legal. Start the record, Mr. Weasley," he said, and produced a roll of parchment and quill of his own.

"Collection of evidence in preparation for the trial of one Peter Pettigrew," Madame Bones said, as Percy scratched down the record. "Witness for the Prosecution, Amelia Susan Bones. Court Scribe, Percival Ignatius Weasley. Representatives for the Auror Office, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks." She paused, consulting a large book that I expected had a number of relevant legal decisions enchanted into it. I wasn't wrong.

"In accordance with the Defense of the Minstry Act of 1981, Peter Pettigrew, as an accused Death Eater, is not entitled to legal counsel during this stage, though he remains entitled to counsel during his eventual trial. To ensure his rights, however, in accordance with the Defense of Our Populace Act of 1982, a nonpartisan journalistic observer is required. Serving in that capacity is Xenophilius Lovegood, editor of the _Quibbler_. Additionally, as this interrogation will include the use of Veritaserum, a liscenced Potions Master in good standing is required; that role will be filled by Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." She smiled. "Representing the Wizengamot are Jonathan Greengrass and Augusta Longbottom. Are we ready to proceed?" she asked.

"Yes," they all said.

"Shacklebolt, wake him up, please," Madame Bones said.

"_Rennervate._" As the Auror woke Pettigrew, my godfather administered three drops of Veritaserum to his tongue before nodding to Madame Bones.

"Verbally, for the record please, Professor Snape," Percy chided, clearly taking to the role immediately. My godfather scowled.

"The Veritaserum has been administered, Madame Bones," he said. "You may proceed with your questions; he cannot help but answer them honestly." She nodded.

"For the record, what is your name?" she asked.

"Peter Pettigrew," he answered, tonelessly.

"Peter Pettigrew. You are charged with being a member of the criminal organization known as the Death Eaters, and with being an unregistered animagus. Further charges may be leveled against you as they come out under questioning. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Are you a Death Eater?"

"Yes."

"Why did you fake your own death?"

"Because Sirius Black was trying to kill me."

"Why was Sirius Black attempting to kill you?"

"Because I gave the location of Lily and James Potter, and their son, to the Dark Lord," he said.

"WHAT!" My godfather bellowed. "_Cruc_–"

"_Stupefy!_" Potter yelled. "_Rennervate,_" he added, waking my godfather up. "Sorry, Professor," he said, not looking a bit sorry. "Can't have you being hauled off to Azkaban and all that." Madame Bones raised an eyebrow at him.

"Professor Snape, I need you to control yourself," she said, with a look on her face that clearly read 'I need to find out what that's all about.' "And Mr. Weasley, Mr. Lovegood, would you agree to strike that from the record?" Weasley nodded, while Lovegood looked a bit put out.

"Oh, fine," he said a moment later. "But I want an interview later," he added. Madame Bones rolled her eyes before turning back to Pettigrew.

"Others have testified that Sirius Black was the Secret-Keeper for the Potters," she said. "How did you overcome the Fidelius Charm?"

"I was the Secret-Keeper," Pettigrew said. "Sirius was not," he added, somewhat redundantly. Lupin gasped, and Madame Bones waved him down.

"And did Sirius Black kill those twelve Muggles?" she asked. Pettigrew shook his head.

"No."

"Who did?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"To cover my escape."

"And how did you escape?"

"I am an unregistered animagus; a rat," he said. "I blew up the street, then transformed and hid in the sewers."

"And how have you hid these last twelve years?" Madame Bones asked.

"As a pet rat," Pettigrew said. "I was Percy Weasley's familiar for several years, and have been Ronald Weasley's familiar for the past two."

"WHAT!" Percy bellowed. "_Bombard–_"

"_Stupefy!_" Potter yelled again. "_Rennevate,_" he added, waking Percy. "Seriously, Percy," he admonished. "You don't see Ron – oh, bugger. _Stupefy!_" he yelled, at Ron Weasley this time. "_Rennervate,_" he added, as Shacklebolt chuckled.

"You'd make a half-decent Auror, Potter," he rumbled amusedly. "Make sure you keep up in Potions."

"Mr. Weasley, Mr. Lovegood, please strike the last from the record?" Madame Bones said, clearly ready to challenge my godfather's copyright on the facepalm.

"Yes, ma'am," Percy said sheepishly.

"Agreed," Lovegood said.

"All right," Madame Bones said. "Peter Pettigrew, you are to be charged with twelve counts of murder, three counts of conspiracy to commit murder, two counts of accessory to murder, failure to register as an animagus, and being a member of the terrorist organization known as the Death Eaters. You will be taken to the Ministry of Magic, there to await a solicitor of your choosing and a date for your trial. Do you understand these charges?"

"Yes," Pettigrew said, still under Veritaserum.

"Good. We'll adjourn until then," Madame Bones concluded.

"Record ends," Percy said.

"I concur," Lovegood said.

"Why, Peter?" Lupin asked, anguish written all over his face. Pettigrew, unable to lie, was never the less able to twist his face into grim satisfaction.

"You never took me seriously," he said. "You never gave a shit about little, stupid Peter. James, Sirius, even you, Remus – you all laughed at me. You were always taking me down." His eyes went wild. "WHO'S LAUGHING NOW, MOONY! WHO'S LAUGHING NOW?"

"_Stupefy,_" Potter said, even more flatly than he'd been when stunning Snape. "Be thankful I don't do more," he added quietly, to the man's unconscious form. "But you're not worth it in the least."

"Well done, Potter," I commented, now that I could talk without interrupting the record. "And you're right," I added.

"Indeed," Madame Bones said. "Oh!" she exclaimed, obviously coming to the same conclusion Lupin was. "And Kingsley, send someone to get Sirius Black out of Azkaban, will you?" Shacklebolt looked up from where he and Tonks were manhandling Pettigrew toward the floo.

"Count on it, Ma'am," he said.

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Note:** Daphne's father being named Jonathan Greengrass is not canon, but of the several times one of my favorited authors, munkeymaniac, has had to name him, it is my favorite. Thus, we will be using it for this story. And yes, consider my little insight into how the Wizarding Legal System works (or doesn't) to be purely fanon conjecture. Obviously, having little experience with any legal system, much less a British one or a Wizarding one, I've had to pull whatever I can out of my arse.


	9. Interlude II: Wizengamot Courtroom Ten

**Author's Note:** Into every generation a Potter Author is born. She alone will stand with the Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and Slytherins against the Death Eaters, Inferi and the Forces of Darkness. She is J.K. Rowling.

**-o-o-o-**

**Interlude: Wizengamot Courtroom Ten**

_**In which the third person gets a chance, and we the readers gain further insight into the workings of the British Wizarding Legal System.**_

"Things that must be together to work usually can't be shipped together."  
>– Murphy's Laws of Combat<p>

**-o-o-o-**

"This court calls to order the suit by Narcissa Malfoy nee Black against the Ministry of Magic. Mrs. Malfoy, please state for the record why you are here," said Delores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic.

"Thank you, Undersecretary," Narcissa Malfoy said. "As you're aware, when my husband was arrested, his assets were seized, including our home. I am here to request a small percentage be released to me to cover my living expenses during his incarceration and trial." Umbridge nodded.

"That seems fairly straightforward," she simpered. "And of course, given Mr. Malfoy's longstanding contributions to the Ministry, we all hope to see his innocence proven," she added, attempting to give some support to the woman standing in the center of the courtroom. If one were to judge by the reactions of the assembled Wizengamot, however, they might find that possibility highly unlikely.

"Fat chance," someone coughed, though not loud enough for Umbridge to comment. Narcissa, for her credit, simply smiled weakly.

"My solicitor informs me that a total of, perhaps, five percent of the seized assets may be released?" she said, attempting to sound harmless. Umbridge nodded.

"That is, after all, the rule, and we follow all the rules, don't we?" she simpered further. "Now, I believe your total assets seized come to about sixty thousand galleons, do they not?" she asked. "Let's round it off to the nearest thousand, then, makes the math easier, and... yes?" she asked, looking at Narcissa, who was raising her hand.

"Actually, I took the liberty of having my solicitor draw up a document after assessing the value of all seized property," Narcissa said. "It should be a little more accurate." She handed the scroll to her solicitor, who, biting back a smirk, handed it to Umbridge.

"Thirty-nine million, nine hundred ninety nine thousand, five hundred twelve Galleons?" Umbridge balked. Narcissa smiled sweetly.

"The house has been in our family for generations," she said. "And some of the items seized were quite valuable themselves." Umbridge's eyes nearly left their sockets.

"Those items were illegal!" she exclaimed. "Surely you don't want them back?" Narcissa shook her head.

"Oh, no, Undersecretary. Just monetary compensation for assets seized. You can take the rest, really." She was smiling openly now. "Those are the rules, after all," she said. "And we follow all the rules, don't we?" Umbridge was sputtering.

"Of course, but, thirty-nine million, nine hundred and... and..."

"Oh, just round it off to the nearest thousand," Narcissa said, matching Umbridge's earlier, sickly-sweet tone. "It makes the math easier."

**-o-o-o-**

"Sirius Black, you have been brought to the Ministry to present evidence in your own defense," Madame Bones said. "Finally," she added, under her breath.

"Finally," Black said, completely audibly. "I assume you want me to take Veritaserum?" They'd cleaned him up after Azkaban, while he'd been held in the Ministry cells pending trial. Though he still shook a bit, a week away from the Dementors and three solid meals a day had done him much good, and he looked less like a mass-murderer and more like someone, well, who'd just got out of prison.

"Yes, that is our intention. Will you accept it?" she asked. "I assure you, only a qualified Potions Master will administer it." Black nodded.

"As long as it's not Severus Snape," he said. "Don't trust him not to poison me," he added, cheekily enough, though the humor sort of fell flat as he shuddered again.

"That is quite acceptable," Madame Bones said. "Auror Robards is a qualified Potions Master, and will serve in that fashion." The Wizengamot waited while the powerful truth potion was administered.

"The Veritaserum has been administered successfully, Madame Bones," Gawain Robards said. "You may begin when ready." She nodded.

"Please state your name for the record," she ordered.

"Sirius Orion Black," he said.

"Are you now, or have you ever been, a Death Eater?"

"I am not and have not," he said calmly.

"Did you betray the Potters to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Never."

"Did you kill twelve Muggles by blowing up a street?"

"I have never killed even a single Muggle, by any means."

"Did you attempt to kill Peter Pettigrew?" she asked.

"I did." A few gasps from here and there in the courtroom.

"Why?"

"Because he betrayed James and Lily to Voldemort." More gasps.

"Have you committed any crimes against the Ministry of Magic since coming of age?" she asked, knowing she was pushing it.

"Objection!" Black's solicitor broke in, waving his finger in the air.

"No, I'm willing to answer," Black said, clearly amused even under Veritaserum. "I'm an illegal animagus," he admitted. "I intend to register immediately, if possible." The courtroom murmured.

"Very well, we shall add that to the charges against you," Madame Bones said. "No further questions, counselor," she said.

"Very well," he said. "Sirius waives his right to further questioning."

"Members of the Wizengamot, on the twelve charges of murder, how do you find the defendant?"

"Cleared of those charges," the Wizengamot chorused, with no abstentions.

"The charge of the murder of Peter Pettigrew has been dropped, as we found Pettigrew alive," she said. "Does the Wizengamot wish to amend that charge to attempted murder?" she asked. Black sighed with relief before they even answered, and Madame Bones guessed that was because the maximum sentence for the charge was 10 years in Azkaban, which he had already served.

"No," they chorused. "I would have done the same," some bold soul shouted out. Black grinned cheekily, and Madame Bones had to bang her gavel for order.

"On the charge of being a member of the terrorist group known as the Death Eaters, how do you find the defendant?"

"Cleared of that charge."

"Very well. On the charge of failure to register as an animagus, how do you find the defendant?"

"Guilty," the Wizengamot said.

"Well, it couldn't be helped," Black snarked from the floor. Madame Bones found herself fighting back a grin.

"Very well," she said. "Sirius Black, you have been found guilty of being an unregistered animagus, and are sentenced to one year in Azkaban prison," she said. "That time has been served," she added, to his obvious relief. "As to the matter of compensation," she said, "I believe you had just entered active service as an Auror?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, suddenly remembering that this lady would have been his boss if he'd not gone to prison.

"Then I think eleven years of pay at that rate, backdated, should do it?" she said. "In addition, the Ministry will subsidize any medical treatment, mental or otherwise, relating to your extended and unwarranted incarceration. How does that sound?" she asked. Black smiled thinly.

"Hazard pay," he said.

"I beg your pardon?" she said.

"Aurors attached to Azkaban prison receive additional, hazardous duty pay," Black said. "As I was obviously attached to Azkaban," he added sardonically, "I would like back pay commensurate with my duty." She shook her head.

"Fine, fine. See the bursar on your way out. Anything else?"

"Yes," Black said. "I want to be the one to push Pettigrew through the Veil when the time comes." The courtroom went silent.

"I'm afraid Mr. Pettigrew escaped from our cells downstairs nearly twelve hours ago," Madame Bones said. "His guard has been placed on administrative leave pending an investigation," she added, lamely.

"That rat," Black said, clearly biting back curses in front of the Wizengamot and the press. "He'll go after Harry," he warned. "Try to finish the job."

"Don't I know it," Madame Bones sighed. "In any event, Mr. Black, you are free to go. Don't forget to collect your money and stop by the registrar's office on the animagus bit. What do you turn into, anyway?" She asked. "That is, if you don't mind me asking." In a moment, there was a great, black dog standing in the center of the courtroom. Bones laughed. "Entirely appropriate," she said, rubbing her forehead in exhasperation. "Go see your Godson, Mr. Black."

"Woof!" Sirius Black barked.

**-o-o-o-**

"Lucius Malfoy, you have been found guilty of seventy-seven counts of possession of items proscribed by Wizarding Law, all of which have been confiscated," Cornelius Fudge said sadly. "Consequently, your remaining assets have been seized, including your mansion, to pay your fines. You will serve not less than two years in Azkaban Prison as well," he said. "And this is after we considered your many years of service."

"Seventy-seven counts?" he asked, somewhat incredulous.

"It would have been more," Fudge said, authoritatively, "but we decided to count the vault of torture equipment as one item, rather than breaking it down per capita." Lucius nodded.

"Fortunately for you, the charge of Unlawful Possession of a Dementor has been dropped, as both your solicitor and your wife have testified that you are in no way stupid enough to leave one on your property," Fudge said. "This would have carried a minimum sentence of ten years," he added. Lucius gulped. "Do you understand your sentence?"

"I do," Lucius said. "I believe I'm entitled to five percent of my total assets?" Fudge nodded.

"Your wife collected it last week," he confirmed, to Lucius' wide eyes. "Have you anything more to say before you are removed to Azkaban?"

Lucius Malfoy stood mute.

"Take him away," Fudge said, dolefully. It was a shame, he thought, losing a powerful donor, but on the other hand, he had all the money now, and he could be seen to be _doing something_, always an important thing these days. He was quite glad that whole Sirius Black fiasco had happened under his predecessor; with Madame Bones' quick action to repair the damage, he might actually be able to keep his job if nothing unfortunate happened over the next couple of years.

**-o-o-o-**

"This concludes the trial _in absentia_ of Peter P. Pettigrew," Madame Bones said. "To reiterate, we the Wizengamot find him guilty of all charges. For the murder of twelve Muggles, we sentence him to death by the Veil of Execution, suspended to not less than life in Azkaban prison. For the conspiracy to commit the murders of James, Lily and Harry Potter, we sentence him to death by the Veil of Execution, suspended to not less than life in Azkaban prison. For being a willing member of the terrorist organization known as the Death Eaters, we sentence him to not less than life in Azkaban Prison. For being the accessory to the murders of James and Lily Potter, we sentence him to not less than thirty years in Azkaban prison. For failure to register as an animagus, we sentence him to not less than three years in Azkaban prison. For the crime of breaking out of ministry custody, and for fleeing same, we sentence him to not less than ten years in Azkaban prison. This sentence will be posted in all Wizarding newspapers within Magical Great Britain. We the Wizengamot set a price on the head of Peter Pettigrew of ten thousand galleons, and name him Undesirable Number One." She banged her gavel again. "The Wizengamot's justice be done."

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Note:** And here is our first major deviation from canon. Draco isn't witnessing these events, hence the interlude, but it seems fairly important to include them. Draco's parents are fairly important, in their own ways, to the overall story, so we had to do a bit to show them now. Sirius is, of course, Sirius Business. And Pettigrew is on the run. I wonder where he'll go? I know, and clever readers can probably guess as well. Incidentally, no, the page quote doesn't refer to that kind of shipping. I'm having trouble finding appropriate quotes from Murphy's Laws of Combat; I think next story I'm going back to Skippy's List. What say you, dear readers? Back to "213 Things Skippy Can No Longer DO in the United States Army?" Or do I try to find a new list?


	10. Third Time's the Charm

**Author's Note:** The Death Eaters were created by Wizards. Some of them think that they _are_ wizards. There are many Horcruxes. And J.K. Rowling has a plan.

**-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 8: Third Time's the Charm**

_**In which our intrepid "hero" gets back to Hogwarts, Harry Potter gets his own damn godfather, and nobody is particularly fond of the Dementors of Azkaban.**_

"If you take more than your fair share of objectives, you will have more than your fair share of objectives to take."  
>– Murphy's Laws of Combat<p>

**-o-o-o-**

They say the third time's the charm. I haven't tried it with the time-traveling thing, and don't intend to, but the third year trip on the Hogwarts Express seemed to be a lot more fun after a summer of making friends and allies. If I had a complaint – and I inevitably did – it would be that the compartments were too small to fit all of us, even just the Slytherins, comfortably. Especially as we were all getting, so to speak, a little bit bigger.

So we left the Gryffindors to themselves, and crammed Blaise, Ginny, Daphne, Tracey and I, along with Luna, into a compartment toward the end of the car. We passed Lupin walking down the train as well, a large black dog that I assumed was Potter's godfather, Sirius Black, following at his heels. One day soon, I suspected, our little group was going to take over an entire train car. Wouldn't that be something.

"So," said Blaise, to my car full of people with whom I was on a first-name basis. "Some summer." We all nodded.

"I think we're supposed to be spending this time asking each other how our summer was," Ginny said. "But obviously..." we all nodded.

"Frankly, I'm not sure how we're not all sick of each other," Tracey said.

"Double negative, Trace," Daphne corrected absently, and Tracey glared.

"That's kind of what I mean, Daph," she said, before turning to the rest of us. "Any idea what this year's going to bring?" I didn't. Personally, I remembered it being a pretty quiet year, except for that whole Sirius Black thing – and it wasn't like that was going to be an issue this year.

"I think we cover boggarts this year," Blaise said. "Lupin was saying something about it during our transfiguration bits," he explained to the three of us who'd been in potions with my godfather. I nodded.

"We should probably keep up our practices," I said. "And I've been itching to pick up the sword again, Blaise," I added. My sometime sparring partner smirked.

"Miss getting your arse handed to you that badly, do you?" he asked. I glared back at him, and Ginny coughed.

"So, how about our Quidditch team?" she asked, clearly attempting to change the subject. We bit, however.

"I hear Flint actually managed to graduate," Tracey said. "And Higgs is gone, too. I think Bole and Bletchley are the only upper grades still around." I nodded my agreement.

"I wonder who made captain?" I asked. "I got the feeling that Bole didn't want the job, so I guess Bletchley?" I wondered who my Godfather would have appointed. Surely not me – godparental bias aside, I knew he would put the person most likely to win us the cup in charge.

"Did I hear my name?" a voice called from the corridor, and sure enough, Miles Bletchley poked his head into our compartment. "Talking Quidditch, then?" he asked, with a sideways glance at Luna. "She's not spying for Ravenclaw, is she?" Luna laughed.

"No," she said. "Nor for Gryffindor. Nor will I spy for you all," she added, fixing our compartment with an intense stare. Daphne broke the silence.

"So, Hufflepuff, then?" she said, to general amusement. Luna shook her head.

"They have Cedric Diggory in charge, and wouldn't take it if I offered," she said, sounding completely serious. "Plus, the entire team seems to be affected by wrackspurts, and I don't know if they're contagious or not. Best not to chance it," she concluded, matter-of-factly. Bletchley manged to wipe the confused look off his face.

"I'll take that as a no," he said dryly. "So yes, I'm captain, but I'm holding tryouts this year, and if you all outfly me, that's fine too. So long as we win," he added. "Let's not be crazy here." He grinned. "Anyway, it's my last year here, so I don't care about playing so much as going out with a winning team. I'm not going to play professionally, after all."

"What are you planning on, then?" I asked. "Ministry job?" I seemed to recall Bletchley being a pureblood, and thus almost guaranteed a position. To my surprise, he shook his head.

"Naw. There's a spot opening up on the Quidditch beat at the _Prophet _after this year," he said. Luna huffed. "Aw, don't look at me like that, Lovegood," he said. "_Quibbler_ doesn't have a sports section after all." He threw a cheeky grin her way, and she crossed her arms.

"And I suppose the pay is better," she conceded reluctantly, still obviously upset at Bletchley's upcoming employment with her magazine's bitter rival. The affable Quidditch captain bowed.

"Of course," he admitted. "One has to eat, after all." He looked around. "I'll set try-out dates with Snape soonest, but expect them to be the first or second weekend," Bletchley said. "I'm particularly interested in which of you two is a better Seeker, Malfoy, Weasley." I groaned, having completely forgotten that Ginny was now my top competition for my spot, but Bletchley didn't catch it as he left the compartment.

"Actually, I was thinking of going out for Chaser," Ginny said. "Seeker's fun and all, but I'd rather play the whole game, thanks." Blaise perked up at this.

"So that puts you, me, Tracey and Seamus at least competing for Chaser," he said. "Someone's bound to be disappointed." He paused. "But then again, that's Quidditch. I'll feel bad for whichever one of you gets dropped, of course," he added pompously. Tracey laughed.

"You're so full of crap, Blaise," she said. "And you are absolutely going down."

Quidditch talk dominated the compartment for most of the trip, ranging from general disdain for the other House teams (except from Luna) to thoughts on the upcoming Quidditch World Cup and which countries' teams had the best chances. League Quidditch came up as it began to get dark outside, and Blaise and I were in the middle of a lively argument as to whether or not the Falmouth Falcons or the Tutshill Tornadoes would take the league this year when the ice started forming on the windows.

"Seriously, though, the Falcons have the better chaser team, even if Tutshill – oh, that's not good," I said, watching the windows rime up. "What's causing that?" I asked. In hindsight, I should have realized – but I didn't think they'd be here, not with Black all pardoned.

"Does anyone else feel cold?" Daphne asked, shuddering. All of us nodded, bundling our cloaks around us and crowding together for warmth. It didn't help; I felt the chill as if all my clothes were damp and I was walking in the winter wind on the Hogwarts grounds. Then, the first tingles of fear hit.

I heard a rattling outside the compartment, bones dragging against the metal of the train, and whispered breath. I felt sharp pain beginning on my back, scars from a flogging that had never happened, and I heard the Dark Lord's high-pitched laughter, heard him thanking me for allowing his return. _I shall attend to Draco Malfoy_, he said in front of the massed crowds in the Great Hall, and the fear compounded, sending icy knives into my gut.

I tried to shut it out, slamming shut mental barriers honed from three years of Occlumency practice. I could feel the fear rush against them like the cold waves of the North Sea against the Scottish shore, and nearly keeled over right there. It was incredibly different from fending off Legilimency. Where my Godfather's mind felt like a thousand wisps of light probing for information, and what little I'd felt of Dumbledore's mind was similar, if an order of magnitude stronger, these were battering rams against the walls of my Occlumency. Whatever it was, it didn't want information, didn't want to break into my mind. It simply wanted my mind broken.

When I could look around, I saw the rest of the compartment even worse off. Luna was on the floor, nearly catatonic, and Ginny was silently mouthing one word – Tom – over and over. Blaise's eyes flickered around the room in abject terror, as if something was going to leap from the shadows to stab him, and Tracey's eyes were filled with tears as she pleaded for some unknown enemy to stop. Only Daphne seemed better off than I, and she, too, was clearly terrified. Still, she had the presence of mind to do what I could not.

"_Protego,_" she whispered, and a shimmering field of force interposed itself between us and the door. The waves receded only the slightest amount, but it helped – at least until the door opened, and a scabby, bony hand reached through. The fingers traced along the shield charm, making it ripple. Then it dissolved as if it had never been, and the hooded horror forced its way through. Now I recognized it, and would have kicked myself for not immediately thinking "Dementor" if I'd had the spare energy to kick. As it was, I could only watch, terrified, as it moved toward us.

"_Expecto Patronum!_" a voice called, and a great, shaggy silver dog burst through the door. The Dementor hissed in fear and launched itself through the icy panes of the window without ever breaking the glass. The Patronus danced merrily around the room, licking Ginny's face and nudging Luna with its nose, imparting warm feelings wherever it went. As it brushed by, I finally felt able to let my Occlumency relax, and with it, the breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

"Are you all alive in here?" a shaggy-haired man asked, and Daphne made a slight eep of alarm before she caught herself. Well, twelve years of being told someone is a mass-murderer can be tough to break, and after all, it was the first time she'd seen Sirius Black.

"We're all fine, Mr. Black," I said. "Quite a bit shaken up, but alive and in one piece, soul and all." He looked straight at me.

"You're Narcissa's boy, aren't you?" he asked. I nodded, slowly. "Don't call me Mr. Black, cousin. My father was Mr. Black, as were any number of uncles and cousins, but I'm not. Don't call me that. I'm serious." I kept nodding.

"Yes, I know you're Sirius," I said, carefully deadpan, and to my surprise, he howled with laughter.

"I thought I was the only one who got to make those jokes!" he said, pulling out a large bar of chocolate from his robes. "Seriously, though," he said, "eat this, all of you. It helps." He broke the bar into several pieces, making sure Luna and Ginny got the biggest ones. "Never thought I'd be saving a bunch of Slytherins," he muttered, seemingly amused. I took my piece gladly; I was already going to have a pounding headache later from the Occlumency; I didn't want to compound it with the after-effects of Dementor shock.

"Sirius, are my brothers alright?" Ginny asked, and he looked up from handing Luna another piece of Honeydukes' finest.

"I'm sure they are," he said. "Remus – that is, Professor Lupin to you lot – was taking care of that half of the compartment." He shook his head. "Dementors, on the Hogwarts Express, I ask you," he said, and part of the fearless facade cracked a moment, showing us a glimpse of the man who'd spent twelve years around the awful things. "What will the Ministry think up next?" he added. "I've half a mind to talk to the press about it." Daphne, having recovered slightly better than the rest of us, asked the question I'm sure we were all thinking.

"Why are they here?" she asked. Black scowled, and for a moment, looked as murderous as we'd all thought him. Well, those of us who didn't know better, anyway.

"Searching for Peter Pettigrew," he said. "Traitorous rat that he is, the Ministry seems to think he'll come to Hogwarts, try to finish the job he started twelve years ago." Blaise, more composed after eating the chocolate, raised an eyebrow.

"And that's why you're here as well?" he asked. Black rolled his eyes.

"Merlin save me from paranoid Slytherins," he grumbled. "Unofficially, yes. Officially, I'm on leave from the Auror Corps, having accrued an otherwise-unacceptable level of use-or-lose vacation days." He brightened for a moment. "Plus, I get to spend time with my godson, and with my best remaining friend, so all in all a good thing." I nodded, understanding the sentiment, before a thought struck me.

"Can you and my godfather keep from killing each other this year?" I asked, half-accusing. "Because I've rather grown attached to him by now." If anything, Black's eye-rolls increased in orbit.

"I suppose I can try not to prank Snivellus too much," he said, as if it were some great concession. I raised an eyebrow to match Blaise's.

"How about a compromise," I said. "You can keep pranking him – I'm sure he'll give as good as he gets – and just stop calling him Snivellus instead." Black affected a look of wide-eyed innocence.

"But what should I call him?" he asked. "That's his name, isn't it?"

"You could try 'Severus,' if you felt really daring," I drawled. "Or, since you're going to be working with the school, 'Professor Snape' would be appropriate." The other Slytherins behind me nodded vigorously. Black cringed.

"Oh, bugger, he's your head of house, isn't he?" he said. "Fine. I'll try to call Sniv..." he paused at our glare, then corrected himself. "SNAPE by something resembling his given name. Any other, similarly world-changing resquests? Perhaps you'd like me to teach trolls to dance, or the Giant Squid to host a game show?"

"Can I have an interview?" Luna blurted. "I always wanted to know what it's like, being in a rock band." Black goggled. "The Hobgoblins?" she continued. "You're really Stubby Boardman, right?"

**-o-o-o-**

"Welcome, welcome to another year at Hogwarts," the Headmaster boomed, addressing the packed Great Hall. "In just a few moments, you'll welcome in the next batch of first-years, and I'm sure they'll be happy in whatever house they are placed." His twinkling eyes didn't falter too much at that, even as he glanced over toward us Slytherins. At least we'd gotten rid of those damnable hats this year. I had no idea what was up with those. Clearly some Gryffindor's idea.

"After last year's excitement, however, I daresay this year will be quite dull," Dumbledore continued. "As dull as any year at Hogwarts can be, of course," he added, to thunderous applause. "Now, before we begin the sorting, I have the usual staff announcements to make. First, we are pleased to welcome Mr. R.J. Lupin, who will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year." There was the usual scattered applause we gave the new DADA teacher each year, made louder at the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables from those of us who'd had him over the summer. My godfather, of course, scowled, but it was clear that he was mainly doing it for show by this point.

"As to our second new appointment: well, I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs," the Headmaster said. "However, I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties." More polite, if somewhat nervous, applause. I clapped politely: I'd already decided not to take Care of Magical Creatures this time around, instead continuing on with Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, so I wasn't worried about being nearly killed by a vicious, rampaging Hippogriff.

"Finally, our Flight Mistress, Rolanda Hooch, is taking this year off, as she has been commissioned to re-write the newest edition of _Quidditch Through the Ages_," he said, to immediate excited murmurs. "Though she'll return to us next year, we're delighted to have vacationing Auror and Gryffindor Quidditch Alumnus Sirius Black filling in for her." More applause followed, along with a great deal of nervous chattering. Black hadn't said anything about the post when we'd talked on the train, but given the rakish grin he was sporting as he toasted the hall from the staff table, it was possible he wanted to surprise his godson. I looked around to see Potter's reaction, but he didn't seem to be there.

"Hey," I said, nudging Seamus, who'd not been with us on the train. "What happened to Potter?" Seamus turned to face me as the Professor called in the first-years.

"Bad Dementor reaction," he said. "Old McGonagall took him up to the hospital wing, along with Ginny and Lovegood." The Irishman shuddered. "Nasty things, those Dementors," he said, needlessly. I nodded my agreement as the Sorting Hat finished what sounded like a series of haiku describing the houses.

I didn't recognize most of the first-years, having never paid them much mind before. I cheered with the rest of the house as we picked up a few new Slytherins, of course, and noticed the divide from last year was still present. Vince and Greg looked particularly lonely at their end of the table without Theo around, and I resolved to find the ghost of my former classmate as soon as I could. Most of the Slytherin first-years seemed to end up sitting on our side, however, including a tiny, fierce eleven-year-old I barely recognized as Daphne's younger sister, Astoria.

Finally, after "Vane, Romilda," was sorted into Gryffindor, the Headmaster let us tuck in. If the wide array of chocolate-based desserts was intentional, no one made a fuss about it, at least that I could hear. Personally, I was just glad to eat well and get to sleep. It had been a trying day.

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Note:** For the uninitiated, Use-or-Lose Leave is a term used by government employees to refer to vacation time not taken in excess of the maximum amount allowed. For instance, in the Air Force, we were allowed to bank up a total of sixty days (accruing about thirty days each year). This was presumably to keep us from banking up six years' worth of leave and then leaving our offices high and dry for half a year at the end of our term. In any event, since Amelia Bones' solution to Sirius' incarceration was to list him on the active Auror rolls less his one year served for Failure to Register, he has 11 years' vacation time saved up – in this case, about nine months (because it fits the story for it to be that much). Later in the chapter, Professor Dumbledore's speech regarding Kettleburn and Hagrid is lifted directly from _Prisoner of Azkaban_, mainly because I found the line quietly hilarious. I kind of wanted to keep Kettleburn around, mainly so I could work his first name into the story and make a Warcraft reference at the same time, but I thought that might be a petty reason to include a character, so I did not. Finally, as to why Ginny and Luna also had bad reactions, well, Ginny has recent possession for the Dementors to bring to the surface, and it's only been a few years since Luna watched her mother die. If Draco wasn't an Occlumens, he'd be up there too, but it's hard to tell a story from a hospital bed without a lot of needless exposition (for proof, see chapters three and four).

**Author's Note on Author's Note: **My apologies for the forever this took to get posted; it was written some time ago but I never got around to editing it. Trying to go back through and get a feel for the story so I can write some more now. - MB


	11. The Cup of Helga Hufflepuff

**Author's Note:** Fourteen years ago, a cast of characters was set to paper by a British author for a book of magic. These men and women promptly escaped from the series proper to the fanfiction underground. Today, still owned by J.K. Rowling, they survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a plotline, if no one else will do, and if you can handle them, maybe you can hire... the Potterverse.

**-o-o-o-**

**Chapter 9: The Cup of Helga Hufflepuff**

_**In which Snape gets the first information on those dastardly Horcruxes, and Draco and Potter make a trip to Diagon Alley.**_

"Don't ever be the first, don't ever be the last and don't ever volunteer to do anything."  
>– Murphy's Laws of Combat<p>

**-o-o-o-**

My good mood lasted only a week and a half, before the second Double Potions lab with the Gryffindors called a halt to it. My godfather was in fine form, and if anything, was harder on Granger and me, who had proven our potions prowess over the summer, than he was on Longbottom and Finnegan – despite the latter twosome's serious progress toward blowing up the laboratory.

"Potter, what is this?" he asked, waving dismissively at the Boy-Who-Lived's potion.

"Um, a Forgetfulness Potion, sir?" he asked. I shook my head ruefully, though thankfully, Granger's bushy hair hid me from my godfather's eyes.

"Shouldn't have phrased it in the form of a question," Granger muttered, concentrating on her brew.

"You'd think he'd have learned," I agreed, stirring thrice clockwise.

"Clearly you've taken a Forgetfulness Potion yourself," my godfather sneered, "As you forgot to add the Valerian sprigs! _Evanesco!_" he exclaimed, vanishing the potion. "Honestly, Potter, we covered this in first year! Detention! Tomorrow night, my office!" Potter hung his head, and Weasley clapped him on the back bracingly. My godfather, meanwhile, stalked over to our table.

"Barely adequate, Granger," he sneered, "But it will have to do. Perhaps you should be assisting your partner," he added, glaring at me, "who seems to have forgotten much during his stay in the Hospital Wing last year. Perhaps, Mr. Malfoy," he said, "you can join Mr. Potter in remedial potions tomorrow evening." With that, he swept off to castigate Longbottom and Finnegan, leaving Granger and I with nearly-identical looks of confusion on our faces. I noticed, however, that he didn't vanish my potion as he did Potter's, so at least I'd get a grade on this assignment.

The following evening, a Friday night, found Potter and I at my godfather's office.

"What do you think we'll be doing?" he asked. I shrugged.

"Given that he mentioned 'remedial potions', I highly doubt we'll be sorting frog entrails without gloves," I drawled. He perked up at that.

"Well, that's something, at least," he said, and we knocked on the door.

"Enter," my godfather bade, and we did. "Shut the door, please," he said, and as we complied, gestured to two chairs sitting in front of his desk. "Nothing we speak of tonight is to leave this room," he said. "Mr. Potter, my apologies, you did not, in fact, forget the Valerian sprigs." At Potter's incredulous look, my godfather only smiled, thin and dark. "I merely required a reason to assign you detention, and you have unfortunately been working hard to keep me from doing so this year." He raised his glass to Potter, then drank.

"If I may, Professor Snape, why _are _we here, if not for detention?" Potter asked. Good, at least he was trying for respectful. That would get him a little more leniency with my godfather, certainly.

"To discuss the Dark Lord, his inevitable return, and what we are going to do about it," my godfather said. "I am sure the Headmaster spoke with you after that fracas with the Philosopher's Stone, yes?" Potter nodded.

"He said Voldemort would try another way, after the stone was destroyed," Potter said. "Do you mean to say you've figured out how he's coming back?" My godfather shook his head.

"I don't know how he plans on returning, but I am quite aware of why he has not completely died," he said. "Draco actually clued me into it," he added, and I definitely appreciated him not saying 'Draco had to tell me to my face, and he used small words', as that would arouse undue curiosity toward me and a loss of confidence in my godfather. "After the incident in the Chamber of Secrets last year." Potter tilted his head in confusion.

"The diary?" he asked. "I thought that was just a memory of Voldemort," he said, and we both cringed again.

"Can you please stop saying that!" I hissed, bad memories of my own coming to the fore again. My godfather nodded.

"It's not that we're afraid of the name, Mr. Potter, but some of us have unpleasant memories associated with that particular name, to say the least," he said, rubbing his left arm. Potter stared at it before shaking himself out of it.

"Tom, then," he said. "Tom Riddle is his real name anyway." I nodded.

"I can call him that," I said, picturing for one brief, glorious moment, the look on the Dark Lord's face as Potter called him by his given name the first time around. _You dare!_ Yes, yes we do. After a moment's hesitation, my godfather nodded his agreement.

"Tom, then," he said. "The diary was indeed a memory, but a particular kind." He pulled out a worn, yet fat, book out from his desk. "These are the collected research notes of a wizard named Herpo the Foul," he said. "I spent all summer tracking them down in places too unsavory to mention." He shuddered.

"Notes on what?" I asked, already guessing at the answer. My godfather rolled his eyes at me.

"One particular magical process," he said. "One of which other books, even the so-called _Secrets of the Darkest Arts_, found in our own Restricted Section, only make the slightest passing mention." He paused, drawing in a breath – the man knew how to play a room, I've always given him that. "The creation of a Horcrux." Potter's confused look grew.

"What is a Horcrux, Professor?" he asked.

"An object in which a witch or wizard has secreted away a part of their soul," my godfather responded. "In order to live forever, so long as these objects last." He shuddered. "Even the darkest wizards and witches throughout history only made one, at most," he said. "Beyond the tearing of the soul in the first place, the ritual itself is unspeakable."

"Tearing the soul?" Potter asked. "How does one tear the soul?"

"Murder," I answered, somewhat intimately familiar with the idea from my first trip around. It was Potter himself who told me, during the brief period after the battle before I made my trip back here, that Snape had euthanized Dumbledore in order to keep me from splitting my soul with murder. Not that I could do it anyway. I could pull off a Cruciatus curse in a pinch, and of course, the Imperius came naturally to me, but _Avada Kedavra_ and I never seemed to get along. Potter, to his credit, nodded.

"That makes sense – not just simple killing, but outright murder?" he clarified, and my godfather nodded. "Otherwise, every other Auror would have a split soul," Potter muttered.

"Indeed," my godfather confirmed dryly, and I suspected he was thinking of a few Aurors who had a split something, if not a soul, Mad-Eye Moody first among them. "In any event, most would-be Dark Lords who even attempted the rituals only made one. Gellart Grindlewald, for example, never made any." I was surprised by that, actually, but was distracted by my godfather's next statement. "Herpo the Foul, who took these extensive notes on the process, made two." He shook his head. "And my former master would tell anyone who would listen and a few who couldn't care how he had gone further than any before him on the road to immortality." He rubbed his forehead.

"So Volde– sorry, _Tom _made at least two of these?" Potter said. "And the diary was one of them, but it's been destroyed." He twisted up his face. "It _has_ been destroyed, right?"

"Of course," I confirmed. "You killed it yourself, with the basilisk." I shook my head. "But I think what Professor Snape is saying is that Tom made at least three. 'Further than any before him,' right?" My godfather nodded.

"It's highly likely that he made at least four, and probably no more than six," he corrected. "Looking at this logically, he would have made more than Herpo, which means three or more. We can assume that, however many pieces the Dark Lord broke his soul, he'd be counting the one in his body as one piece, meaning if he created three Horcruxes, he'd have four pieces of his soul. However, as you're no doubt learning in Arithmancy, Draco, four isn't a very good number for immortality. Too many cultures regard it as being highly tied to death. So he could have made four, leaving five pieces total." I nodded.

"Five is a fairly solid number," I said. "But you said probably no more than six?" He nodded.

"Seven is widely considered the most magically powerful number, and I think he'd want to aim for that," my godfather said. "So six Horcruxes plus the piece within him. I doubt he had made his sixth yet, if he did go that far," he added. I shook my head, confused. I knew he'd had six Horcruxes by the time Potter destroyed him, but I couldn't exactly come out with that, could I?

"Why is that?" I asked, instead. Potter nodded his agreement with the question.

"Because he'd want to finish his work with the defeat of a great foe, or, perhaps, a prophesied enemy," my godfather said.

"Me," Potter whispered. "He was going to make a Horcrux with my death?" My godfather nodded.

"I have reason to think so," he said. "The Dark Lord chose to believe you were the subject of a prophecy made before you were born." He coughed. "I only heard half of it," he explained, "but then again, so did the Dark Lord." Potter glared at him.

"You told him, didn't you?" he accused. My godfather nodded, slowly.

"And then told Dumbledore when he went after you and your parents," he said. "Told him to hide you all, to keep the Dark Lord from finding you." Potter's face grew even more confused.

"Why?" he asked. My godfather looked on the urge of answering honestly, before he replaced the open look on his face with a cold sneer.

"Perhaps I couldn't stomach the idea of a one-year-old baby being murdered in cold blood," he scowled. "I'm not entirely heartless, Potter, nor was I the only Death Eater who got cold feet at the kind of atrocities the Dark Lord bade us commit." His face grew colder. "I am simply one of the few who got out." Potter was silent for a moment, clearly considering this new information.

"What did the prophecy say?" he asked. "The part that you heard?" My godfather sighed.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches," he quoted. "Born to those who have thrice defied him. Born as the seventh month dies." He shook his head. "That's all I heard. It could have applied to two boys, you know," he said. "Thank Merlin it was you and not Longbottom; I don't know if the world would have survived." Potter glared at him.

"Neville's a better man than you give him credit for," he spat. "And if it had been Neville and not me, my parents might still be alive."

My godfather sat stock still, gripping the table with white knuckles, and I wasn't sure which of them had crossed a line, but knew we had to move to a different topic, fast, before the room exploded.

"And the Horcruxes?" I asked. "Do we have any idea what the others are?" The diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the diadem and the snake, I thought, but couldn't say it. At the very least, I would find myself in the Headmaster's office, with a number of people rifling through my head. At worst, I would find myself dead or under lock and key in the Department of Mysteries. None of the above seemed very appealing. My godfather shook his head.

"No, but I may have a lead on where one of them is," he said. "Bellatrix Lestrange was one of his most trusted followers, far more than I ever was." He sneered. "Toward the end, she kept babbling on about some mission the Dark Lord had given her, keeping something important of his hidden. I dismissed it at the time as the ravings of the madwoman she undoubtably is, but perhaps..." he poured himself another firewhiskey, and Potter jumped on the statement.

"Perhaps it's something more," he said. "Perhaps a Horcrux." He frowned. "But where would she keep something like that safe?" I rolled my eyes.

"Where does any Pureblood put something they don't want anyone else to have?" I asked. "Gringotts. Her vault in Gringotts." I hung my head, suddenly realizing what that meant. "Oh, Salazar, we don't have to deal with the Goblins, do we?" Thankfully, my godfather shook his head.

"As she's serving a life sentence in Azkaban, her belongings should have passed down to her next of kin. With Rodolphus and Rabastian both in Azkaban as well, that leaves your mother, Draco." I shook my head.

"Yes, but I was disowned," I said. "That rather puts a crimp in our plans, doesn't it?"

"Wait a tic," Potter spoke up. "Didn't I read about your father being incarcerated and most of your mother's assets being seized?" I glared at him.

"Yes, and thank you so much for reminding me, Potter," I said. "While you're at it, why don't you just stab me and rub some salt in it. But I don't see how that helps," I added, before I could grumble any further. "If she'd claimed the vault, then the Ministry likely has it now." He smiled that grin that my godfather says makes him want to smack Potter.

"_If_ she claimed it," he said. "If she didn't, it would go to the next living Black not in Azkaban, right?" My godfather looked up and started vigorously shaking his head.

"No. I will not work with him on this. No. Not now, not ever. No, no, no. And that's final."

**-o-o-o-**

"How did I get roped into this again?" Sirius Black asked, as soon as we re-appeared in the Gringotts lobby after flooing from Hogsmeade. "I mean, helping Snape? Breaking about fifty school rules while employed as a teacher?" He paused for a moment. "Wait, I don't particularly care about rules. At all. But helping Snape?"

"Think of it as helping your godson and his friend," Potter said, and I rolled my eyes. Black straightened up.

"Since when are you friends with Slytherins, anyway?" he asked. "In my day, the houses didn't really associate that much, at least not Slytherin and Gryffindor." Potter shrugged.

"Times change," he said, and isn't that more the truth than he knew.

"And anyway, I'm kind of family, right?" I said, to Sirius' scowl.

"I never liked most of my family, kid," he said. "Except cousin Andy and her kid." I raised an eyebrow.

"By 'cousin Andy,' I assume you mean Aunt Andromeda?" I asked. The animagus nodded.

"I'm surprised you've heard of her," he admitted. I shrugged.

"Just because she was disowned doesn't mean she wasn't my mother's sister," I said. "I've never met her, but Mum used to act like she was simply living far away rather than, you know..." I trailed off. I hadn't seen my mother in months – technically, more than a year, though I'd been unconscious for the better part of it. I wondered if she acted like I was simply on holiday in a far-off land, as well. "So the criteria for you liking a family member is they have to have been disowned?" I said. "So be it, I can work with that." Potter snickered.

"I'm missing something here," Black said, frowning.

"Draco's father disowned him at the end of our first year for associating with Gryffindors," Potter said. I scowled.

"It was slightly more complicated than that," I disagreed. Potter raised an eyebrow. "Just slightly," I amended. Black rolled his eyes. "It was!" I said. Potter smirked. Damn, I thought, I know that smirk. I suddenly worried I might actually have been rubbing off on him – and then wondered how much the golden boy of Gryffindor was rubbing off on me.

"Well, yes," he said. "Ernie MacMillan told me you robbed him of his house-elf, as well. Good job, that," he added. "I doubt your father treated him very well." Black snorted.

"That's a bit of an understatement," he clarified, as we boggled at him. "Lucius always was a bit of an arrogant, power-mad prat, even in school." He shrugged. "Than again, I thought most of the Slytherins were. I guess that's changed," he said. I shook my head.

"Only half right," I said. "The other half tend to ignore us. Apparently those of us willing to be contributing members of society lack ambition, and are thus beneath them." I snorted. "As if Blaise's not-so-secret desire to play for England, or Tracey's goal to be the first half-blood female Minister for Magic makes us any less ambitious than the rest." My godfather's sneer was already on my face by this point, and Black was already looking down at Potter and I amusedly.

"You remind me of someone," he said, cryptically, then moved out of his musing before I could ask further. "Anyway, here's Gringotts."

Mindful of the Probity Probes in the hands of the guard-Trolls, we entered the lobby, where a goblin fawned over Potter and Black for their fortunes and subtly snubbed me. It was all the same to me, really, since I was fairly sure I was at least getting honest treatment. In any event, we made it to the bottom of the vaults alright, and after passing a rather decrepit, but no less frightening, dragon, we found ourselves in front of the Vault of Lestrange.

"So all I have to do is touch it, and it should recognize me as the rightful heir?" Black asked. The goblin – Grip-something-or-other, I could never remember goblin names – nodded.

"Unless you aren't, in which case you'll be dead before you can regret it," he said. Potter shuddered, and I said nothing – it sounded like a joke, but who knew with goblins?

"No pressure," Black said, chuckling nervously. "Alright, here I gaahhhh!" He was shaking violently, his entire body getting into it, and I was reminded, suddenly and awfully, of a Death Eater undergoing the Dark Lord's Cruciatus curse. Potter flinched, trying to drag Black away from the door, when suddenly Black's yells turned into laughter.

"You should see the look on your faces," he said, grinning. Potter lunged at him.

"Not funny!" he yelled, shaking his godfather. "I thought you were dying!"

"Unlikely," the goblin deadpanned, pushing past Black into the opened vault. "If the door had killed him, there wouldn't have been anything left to rescue, just a pile of dust." Black's grin suddenly turned into a frozen mask of horror.

"Wait, you were serious?" he asked the goblin, who chuckled unnervingly.

"I'm always serious," he said. I couldn't resist.

"No, _he's_ always Sirius," I said, pointing to Black. Potter groaned as we entered the vault. At first, I was sure it was just the bad pun, but after a moment, Black and I turned to find him clutching his scar.

"Something's... something's here," he gasped out. "Up there, on the shelf," he added, after a moment. Black reached up and grabbed a golden chalice, two-handled and finely-wrought, from the top of a stack of books on the Dark Arts. A glittering badger of exceptional craftsmanship shone on the front of the goblet, though for a moment I thought I saw red in its eyes.

"That's not goblin-made," the goblin said, awestruck, "but it is quite close in its quality. Perhaps dwarven?" he looked half-lost in the thing's beauty. "Badger on the side suggests possible connection with Hufflepuff family..." I laid a hand on his shoulder.

"And it's clearly cursed very heavily," I said. "So back off." Grip-thingy did manage to shake off whatever compulsion was drawing him toward it, but kept stealing glances at the cup when he didn't think we were looking.

"How do we... how do we..." Potter was cringing, clearly not used to the kind of evil the cup radiated.

"Destroy it?" Black asked, and Potter nodded from the floor. "No idea. Did Sniv... did Snape have any clue?" he asked me. I shook my head.

"Basilisk venom, maybe," I said. He and I had talked about it, but that was the best we could come up with. "It's what destroyed the diary, after all. But unless we want to take this thing back to school..." Harry shook his head adamantly. "Department of Mysteries, maybe?"

**-o-o-o-**

"Department of Mysteries," the voice sang out, far too cheerful for a speaker which had, just moments ago, been playing "Girl from Ipanema" unironically. Potter and I had badges with our names on them, and "Mission to Save the World" under "Purpose of Visit." Black's looked similar, though his read "Up To No Good" instead.

"I want to keep this thing," he said, and for a moment I worried he was talking about the Horcrux. Then I realized he meant the badge. " 'Sirius Black: Up To No Good.' I like it. It's got a bit of a ring to it," he said. "Maybe I'll get Moony to come get one too."

"Can we please get this over with?" Potter asked, glaring at the lead-lined box we were now holding the Horcrux in. After he started bleeding from the nose – and his scar – while we were in the lobby, and Grip-whatever-his-name-was began to make noises about "his precious," the goblins wisely provided us with something shielded. As such, Potter was moving around upright, though he still looked rather green around the gills.

"Sure," Black said. "Any minute now..." he continued, looking around the oval chamber with strange markings. "Ah, here one is," he said as a blue-robed Unspeakable exited a door marked with an enormous cogwheel.

"Ah, what?" The dark-haired man asked. "What's all this, then?" He fidgeted a bit, as if anxious to get back to his research. Black stuck out his hand with something like a winning smile.

"Sirius Black," he said. "This is Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. We need to speak with a senior Unspeakable," he said. "No offense, but this is some pretty off-the-books stuff we've got here." The Unspeakable paused a moment, as if unsure of the proper protocol, then extended his own hand. I noticed it looked rather artificial.

"Junior Unspeakable Donal MacFinn," he said, twitching. "I'll fetch Senior Unspeakable Croaker for you, then. He's better at interfacing with non-qualified Wizards." He brushed off behind a door marked with an enormous brain before I could be offended on all our behalfs. I suspected Potter and Black needed the moment to realize they should be, but Potter raised an eyebrow at me.

"Ravenclaw?" he guessed. Black grunted.

"Probably," I drawled, as a much older man, white-haired and clanking along on what looked to be a prosthetic set of legs, ambled in.

"Senior Unspeakable Algernon Croaker," he said. "Call me Algie. Sorry about MacFinn there; he's much better with machines than people," he explained, shaking all our hands. His looked like they might be real, but I could tell he'd replaced one of his eyes with something, as it glowed bright blue. "Works with Muggle technology, you see, trying to adapt it to our world."

"Has he had any success?" Sirius asked. "I had a motorcycle I wouldn't mind him taking a look at..." he trailed off. Croaker grunted.

"Some," he admitted. "Bring it in some time, we'll see if we can't get it up to code." I cleared my throat.

"If we're done reliving an episode of _Doctor Who,_" I drawled, "And yes, Potter, I've seen a Muggle telly show, try not to faint – perhaps we could deal with this?" I pointed at the box.

"What's in there?" Croaker asked. Black smiled grimly.

"What do you know about destroying Horcruxes?" he asked. Croaker smiled.

"I have just the thing."

In retrospect, I'm not sure where I thought the Ministry disposed of the mountains of waste they must have generated each day, but a thaumatechnological incinerator running off Fiendfyre certainly wasn't it. Even more unsettling was the Unspeakable's maniacal laughter as he placed the Horcrux – lead-lined box and all – in the center of it with two additional limbs clearly made of some form of metal. I supposed the robes covered stuff like that, but I also suspected, despite his genial manner, that Algie Croaker and the other Unspeakables didn't get out much. The laughter continued as he handed us all goggles to put on, then flipped a comically-large red switch, filling the chamber with an orange glow from the incinerator's window.

"We used to use a giant button," he cawed, "but the temptation was too much for us to push it!" Through his goggles, Black peered in at the raging inferno.

"Are you sure this will work?" he asked, looking worriedly down at his godson, who'd curled up into a ball almost the moment the switch went on as the lead melted away. Croaker continued chortling.

"It's hot enough in there to fricassee a Heliopath," he cackled. "We can't even have Salamanders anymore, they just burn right up!" As the flames raged on, Potter stood up from the ground, a look of quiet victory shining across his face.

"It's gone," he said. "I can't feel it anymore."

Sure enough, when Croaker opened the door, nothing at all was left. No slags of metal, nothing.

"Take that, thermodynamics," Croaker crowed.

Two down, I thought. At least two more to go.

**-o-o-o-**

**Author's Note**: If Lucius Malfoy was still around to be Slytherin Prefect when Snape was in school, he was clearly around when Sirius was as well. The jury is out as to whether our Marauders got one, two or three years of him, but I suspect an impression might have formed. As for Harry's reaction to the Horcrux, other than the diary, he'd never been exposed to one until after Voldemort's little ritual. I'm assuming that ritual made the connection between them _less_ painful for Harry. If that's a little off, then so be it. Acceptable breaks from reality – and by reality, I mean canon – are kind of the rule of the day here.

**Other Author's Note:** As I have said before, there won't be any real shipping until our Slytherin hits fourth year. Hormones and puberty are having an effect on Draco that he didn't really expect, but it's going to take him a little while longer to act his age instead of older. With that said, I will not be writing slash, especially not a Drarry fic. I can't put myself in the mindset, at least not for first-person, and would probably just offend everybody. If slash pairings appear at all, they'll be in the background, along with all other pairings that don't involve our point-of-view protagonist. You're welcome to guess at pairings in advance, but everybody needs a lot more character development before any of them become valid, so it could be a while.


	12. To Achieve Their Ends

**Disclaimer:** In the literary system, Harry Potter fans are represented by two separate but equally important groups: the fandom, who love the characters, make them our own, and write the fanfic; and J.K. Rowling, who owns and created them. These are their stories.

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><p><strong>Chapter 10: To Achieve Their Ends<strong>

**_In Which Draco realizes he has not been particularly Slytherin, and deals with the ensuing fallout, and in which we return after a hiatus of near-Sherlockian proportions._**

_"7. Not allowed to add "In accordance with the prophesy" to the end of answers I give to a question an officer asks me."  
>— 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the United States Army<em>

When last we left our intrepid hero, I was scared out of my Merlin-begotten pants by an Unspeakable who probably belonged in a Muggle Sci-Fi film. I half expected him to proclaim himself my father… but sadly, I knew where my father was, and it was decidedly _not_ incinerating a portion of the Dark Lord's soul, bound to the mortal vessel of, well, a vessel. In this case, the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff. Though it had been only a week, from the nightmares, it felt like more than a year - and who knows what was lost in the meanwhile?

Two Horcruxes down. By the Godfather Theory (read: the only thing upon which my godfather and Potter's godfather had yet managed to agree), that meant there were at least two left, and probably no more than four, of the vile soul-containers left. We'd destroyed the Diary and the Cup. From Voldemort's insane ranting in the original timeline — Hogwarts Prime? That sounded a bit too Ravenclaw — that left the Snake, the Diadem, the Locket, and the Ring. Oh, and Potter had to die to make sure the Dark Lord did, but somehow, he'd come back. Did that mean Potter was a Horcrux too?

It bore considering, and I wasn't quite sure how to deal with that yet. An _Avada Kedavra_ to the back was just not sporting, and while I had not the slightest problem with not being sporting, I'd grown to like Potter. Well, like was probably too strong a term. But a dead man couldn't play Quidditch, and he kept me on my toes on the pitch like no other seeker could.

Besides, I wasn't a killer, at least not with the Killing Curse. Aunt Bella was absolutely right: to really get the Unforgivables to work, you had to mean them. I could get the Cruciatus going on someone I really hated, and had enough of the willful child to ensure that my Imperius was second to none, but I'd had Albus Dumbledore in my sights and couldn't pull the trigger even if I'd wanted to. _Avada Kedavra _and I would never get along.

These thoughts and others kept me up at night, which proved fortuitous one night, when my dorm room door opened and a weedy-looking frame appeared, wand in hand. I was behind my bed with my own wand in hand, a stunning curse on my lips, before the light hit my pillow. I could see whomever it was scan the room, picking out the twin lumps of Crabbe and Goyle in their beds, noting Blaise's loud snores, skipping over the absence of bedding and bare frame where Theodore Nott had once slept.

"_Stupefy,_" a voice said, and it wasn't mine. The figure dropped, stunned in the back, and in the door's light I could make out the face of Hector Montoya, a sixth-year Pureblood whose father had been the Dark Lord's man on the ground in Spain during the original timeline. "_Rennervate,"_ the voice continued, as a larger form — Miles Bletchley, my Quidditch captain, I could see as his face came into the light — knelt with his knee on Montoya's throat.

"Good morning, Hector," he said, affable as ever. "Were you looking for something?"

"Gasp, gurgle!" said Montoya, or at least he made noises that sounded much like a gasp and a gurgle.

"What's that? You were looking for Malfoy? No, no, no, that won't do at all," Bletchley continued, as if Montoya had actually given him an answer. "You see, I believe I told you Malfoy was off limits for your little shenanigans. It wouldn't do for him to take a cutting curse before the end of the Quidditch season, would it now?"

I paled. Montoya gurgled a bit more, and Bletchley shook his head.

"Oh, did you need more air? Is that what you're trying to say? 'Miles, give me more air?' That's very interesting. I know all about needing things, of course. We all need things, Hector. You know what I need? _Draco Malfoy on a Salazar-damned broom, catching the snitch before Chang or Diggory can catch it_. I'd prefer he catch it before Potter does as well, but we both know that's a crap shoot. But I'll take two out of three. I can do just fine with two out of three, right? Like, for instance, these two out of three. _Imperio._ Don't you dare scream. _Crucio_."

Montoya didn't scream, even when Bletchley stood up and let him breathe. I could see Montoya's mouth open, but no sound came out but heavy breathing. On second thought, maybe I couldn't manage the Cruciatus — but Bletchley certainly looked like he could. He cut off the torture curse, leaving Montoya gasping on the floor.

"Now, what have we learned, Hector?" he asked, a teacher's smile on his face.

"Leave Malfoy alone," Montoya gasped, the Imperius compelling him to answer.

"Good," Bletchley said, "You'll remember that, at least, even if I can't allow you to remember anything else. _Obliviate!_ _Stupefy!"_ He turned to me.

"Go to bed, Draco. You have Quidditch practice in five hours."

As he shut the door and I crawled back into bed, two thoughts went through my mind: first, that I had severely underestimated Miles Bletchley. Second, that while I had been off making friends with Gryffindors, I had completely forgotten there was a Slytherin house beside Quidditch, filled with the children of Death Eaters and the knowledge that I had been publicly disowned by the patriarch of House Malfoy… and apparently, my being on the Quidditch team was the only thing keeping them from hurting me.

It made sense: I was vulnerable. I had limited resources in the house to protect me, couldn't throw money at the problem anymore, and a sneering "My father will hear about this!" would only be cause for laughter. Half the Slytherins would use a strike at me to curry favor with my father; the other half would use it as a strike _at_ him. The only way out of this was Slytherin cunning, and I had always embraced the other tenet of the house: Ambition.

"Salazar's teeth, I've been acting like a bloody Gryffindor," I said, apparently out loud, because Blaise rolled over and fixed me with a glare.

"We know. Go to sleep and deal with it tomorrow," he muttered, before taking his own advice. It did seem sound, and a few worried moments later, I dozed off.

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><p>I woke the next morning early, utterly exhausted but rather thrilled to not be dead. A good morning of Quidditch woke me up — Bletchley said not a word about his actions last night, and I followed his example — and even Crabbe and Goyle were grumpily civil to me on the pitch.<p>

As it was Saturday, there was still brunch by the time we finished and gave the Gryffindors the pitch, and I sat down to a few rashers of bacon and some gammon to catalogue my assets. Clogged arteries be damned: I, sir, am a wizard, and there's a potion for that.

Arrayed against me: perhaps half of Slytherin house, third year and up. A somewhat smaller faction appeared noticeably and studiously neutral in outlook: in our year, only Millicent Bulstrode fell into that camp, while all the firsties and most of the second-years did by default. Allies: In our year, Blaise, obviously. Tracey Davis as well, primarily due to Quidditch and half-blood status. Seamus Finnegan for the same reasons. Crabbe and Goyle were loosely in the Junior Death Eater camp, but were strictly hands-off due to Quidditch, and their hearts were clearly not in it. I'd have to watch them — I doubted they could be brought to my side yet, but if I worked hard enough, I could probably convince them to sit neutral. That would, of course, require an ally.

"Tracey," I said, sliding in next to Davis, who, like me, had just changed after hitting the showers. "What's it going to take for Bulstrode to sit down and talk to me?" Tracey sized her up. The two were still friends, though she had far more in common with Daphne than either did with Millicent, but politics were never Davis' strong suit. I remembered a fun-loving girl I'd entirely ignored during the first go-around, and shook the thought off. I was trying to do better this time.

"You do mean politically, yes?" Davis responded. "'Cause I've got to tell you, Draco, I don't think you're her type." I nearly snorted, then thought better of it. Millicent wasn't a bad person, and I'd be too much of the old me, not enough of the new me, if I judged her entirely on her well-muscled appearance.

"Politically, yes," I said. "I'm sure I'd be curious to know what her type _was_, but I'm a little more concerned with not being murdered in my sleep at the moment."

"About bloody time," Blaise snorted from behind a _Daily Prophet_. Davis smiled.

"You know she's not going to do that," she said. I nodded.

"I do. I actually admire her a bit. It's hard to stay neutral in such a polarized house as Slytherin is. But I actually want to see if she'll help me drag Vince and Greg over to her little bastion of autonomy." I gave it some visible thought, as if I had not already. "It benefits her as well, of course: more support in our year for her stance." Davis ate it up.

"I'll talk to her, but it will cost you," she said. "I want the rest of the year's worth of yours and Granger's potions notes." I shook my head. The fierce competition between Granger and myself in that class had more Galleons than I could presently afford riding on it, and too much note-sharing might put one of us ahead. I couldn't do it if that wasn't going to be me.

"The rest of the month's notes," I said. Davis smiled.

"The rest of the term, then," she said. "And you get Professor Black to teach me that trick he does with Transfiguration."

"You mean the Animagus transformation? That's worth the favor alone. No potions notes."

"Done," she said, and I realized that's what she'd wanted in the first place. The half-blood was more Slytherin than I'd given her credit for. Plus, if that wasn't a straight line, my name wasn't Draco Lucius Malfoy.

"Done," I agreed. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to go see a man about a dog."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I lost more than 10k words in the Great Hard Drive Crash of 2012, and it kind of soured me on re-writing the rest of this story. A year and a half later, of course, I can no longer remember what those words were — so I am giving it another shot for National Novel Writing Month 2013. Thanks to all of you who are reading this again, and to those of you who read _The Last Second Chance_ and the first part of this story during the long hiatus. Take that, Sherlock fandom. I think.

Also, as you may have noticed, we've switched back to 213 Things Skippy Can No Longer Do in the United States Army for the page quotes, which gives me a little more versatility than Murphy's Laws of Combat. Plus, I think they fit the theme of the story a little better. If you've got one you want to see, drop me a line in a review. I do read them.

One more thing: as Draco and the Gryffindors start coming together, a few of them are likely to become animagi — and all of them will learn the Patronus charm, if they have not already. Your guesses and / or requests for animal forms are welcome in reviews.

And I'm totally posting this as I'm writing, so if you want to nitpick, do it in reviews and I'll change it. _/shameless review whoring_


	13. The Dogfather Part I

**Disclaimer: **When I was a kid, whenever I'd feel small or lonely, I'd read science fiction, wondering if there was a new, better story in there. Turns out I was looking in the wrong direction. When Harry Potter entered our world it was from the deep beneath the subconscious of J.K. Rowling, a fissure between schoolboy novel and modern fantasy. I was fifteen when the first book landed in San Francisco. The Houses came together, pooling their resources, throwing aside old rivalry for the sake of the greater good. To fight Twilight, we created stories of our own. The fanfiction program was born.

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><p><strong>Chapter 11: The Dogfather, Part I<strong>

**_In Which Draco abuses a metaphor and outmaneuvers a professor._**

_"24. Must not tell any officer that I am smarter than they are, especially if it's true."  
><em>_— 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed To Do in the U.S. Army_

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><p>"You actually went with 'I have to see a man about dog'?" Sirius Black asked. "I mean, it's a classic, don't get me wrong, but there's a reason nobody seriously says that anymore."<p>

"Of course there is," I replied. "They can't seriously say something without being-"

"If you finish that sentence," Remus Lupin said, "I will use you, and not Peeves, to demonstrate _waddiwasi_ in Defense on Monday."

"I was going to say grim, actually," I replied. "Not that that's much better."

"Did you have a point, cousin, or are you just in the teacher's lounge to flaunt school rules and make increasingly-awful puns?" Professor Black asked, a bit of a grin on his face. "Not that I disapprove of either, of course, but seriously, Flitwick or McGonagall could come in, and then where would I be?"

"In the doghouse, for sure," I agreed. Professor Lupin groaned. "Actually, all these canine-related puns are sort of related to my point. When did you start learning to become an animagus?" Sirius sobered immediately.

"I can see where you're going with this, Draco, but I advise you _not_ to try to become an animagus with your friends. It takes a lot of hard work, and any wrong move or little mistake can result in permanent damage." He shook his head, ragged hair shaking with it. "And I know you're going to say 'but Professor Black! You, James Potter, and that idiot Pettigrew did it at 14, and probably started before that,' but we were really very lucky we didn't die a horrible, painful, and worst of all unattractive death." Professor Lupin nodded.

"You'd need someone who'd already gone through the transformation to instruct you, and it takes a lot of time," he said. "Time I doubt Professor McGonagall has, even if you were in her house." I rolled my eyes.

"You mean, the kind of time available to a part-time flying instructor lounging about the castle on paid administrative leave from the Auror department, who happens to transform into a shaggy, shameless black dog when he's feeling particularly barking?" I answered.

"Wait, you want _me_ to teach you?" Professor Black said. "I'm not a teacher." I gave a knowing stare to his chest, where sat a Muggle nametag sticker proclaiming "I AM A TEACHER. ASK ME ABOUT DETENTIONS." It wasn't quite as catchy as "Sirius Black: Up To Know Good" (that button sat on the other side of his robes), but it did seem appropriate. In any event, Professor Black didn't seem to agree. "Flying doesn't count," he said. "All I have to do is tell a bunch of first-years to say 'up' and avoid falling of their brooms for a couple hours a week. This is actual, proper teaching. I can't teach you."

"Please?" I asked. "For a family member?" Professor Lupin snickered.

"Come on, Padfoot. I'd be good for you," he said. Professor Black sighed.

"I can't," Professor Black said. I thought of something else.

"I'll stop asking you to teach me if you'll do me a favor," I offered. His eyes narrowed.

"Go on," he allowed, wary.

"I find myself without a surname, and I might shortly be getting sued over it. My mother was a Black before she was a Malfoy. Write a letter authorizing me to use 'Black' as my surname, so I can actually have a name without getting accused of Line Theft?" I asked, getting it all out in one breath.

"And you'll stop asking me to teach you the animagus transformation?" he asked.

"Of course," I said. "I am a man of my word."

"A thirteen-year-old of your word, actually," Professor Lupin said. "You won't be a man of your word for another four years."

"What he said," I agreed. "So we have a deal?"

"Deal," Professor Black said. He wrote out a short paragraph on a sheet of parchment, signed it, and passed it to Professor Lupin for a witness signature before handing it to me. "So you won't ask me to teach you the animagus transformation again?" he said.

"No, I won't," I answered, taking the parchment. "Of course, the reason I asked in the first place is that my friend Tracey Davis needs me to convince you to teach _her_, so we're going to have another deal if you wan't me to drop the subject entirely."

Professor Black groaned.

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><p>The first meeting of our little study group after returning to Hogwarts already started with an argument.<p>

"If we're going to promote inter-house unity, we're going to need some Hufflepuffs," Neville Longbottom suggested. "And more Ravenclaws couldn't hurt. Right now, we've just got Luna."

"It's hard finding Ravenclaws who aren't total beasts to Luna," Ginny argued. "And the Hufflepuffs get flustered and stern whenever someone makes them talk to Draco."

"Well, if he'd just apologize to Parkinson, that wouldn't be a problem, would it?" Ginny's brother huffed. "I know we're all the best of mates now, but that was a really low move, Malfoy." I shrugged.

"I admit, it wasn't my best moment," I said. Blaise snorted. "And I can't apologize to Parkinson right now. MacMillan won't let me anywhere near her."

"We can distract Ernie next Hogsmeade weekend, if you promise to actually apologize," Potter said. "I've been wanting to talk to him about..." he shrugged. "Okay, there's not actually anything I wanted to talk to him about. Care of Magical Creatures, maybe?" Granger shook her head.

"Can't use that. Parkinson's in that class too," she said. "It won't give him an excuse to ignore her for a minute. What about his other electives? I think he's in Arithmancy with me."

"You're looking at it wrong," Luna said, from the other end of the Room of Requirement. "Ginny and I will do it."

"What?" Weasley asked, completely confused.

"She's saying you need to talk to Parkinson," I said. Long hours of guarding Luna in my parent's basement in the original timeline meant it took me a couple seconds less to pick up on what she was saying, which sometimes meant I could understand her at all. "You know, like she's an actual person instead of a just some accessory for MacMillain." Granger's mouth curled up at one side.

"Why, Draco, that was almost enlightened," she said. I gave an exaggerated bow.

"As to why the two of them: putting aside that they're both girls and thus an old-school, pompous pureblood like-"

"You?"

"Shut up, Weasley. Anyway, MacMillan won't want to listen in on 'girl talk' if there's something suitably manly to do. Potter, you distract him with Quidditch." Ginny elbowed me in the side. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Quidditch isn't manly. Well, not just manly."

"Riding around on six-foot sticks, putting things through large oval targets, and striving to catch one particular golden, objectified item? No, nothing 'manly' about it at all."

"You know what I meant. And seriously? You decided a dick joke was the way to go?"

"Technically it was a series of dick jokes. And you're twelve. How did you pick up on that?"

"... are you seriously surprised that a twelve-year-old is familiar with that level of humor? Especially one who grew up with six older brothers?"

"... Stop saying 'seriously,' you'll summon the professor."

"Wanker."

"Prat."

"OI!" This was Weasley. "Can we maybe talk about... whatever we were talking about before?" Next to him, Potter was looking at Ginny and I with a sort of bemused smile.

"Right, well, I think we were going to isolate Parkinson from MacMillain so Draco could apologize to her for treating her like some annoying, subhuman thing when we were all on the Hogwarts Express, and crushing all her hopes and dreams," Blaise said.

"Thank you, Blaise," I grated.

"Maybe he could also apologize for the way she was raised? For buying into pureblood society mores for 11 years and then so rapidly doing an about-face on that front that most of us watching got whiplash? And he could apologize for ruinging Slytherin for her forever, while he's at it," Blaise added.

"_Thank you, Blaise_," I added.

"If we're done managing Draco's social life, some of us came here to practice Defense," Daphne said. Beside her, Tracey nodded.

"And other things," she said. "Draco, did you get Professor Black to agree to the thing?"

"Um, not as such," I admitted. "But I did get another professor to agree to something in the mean time." Almost immediately, the Room, sensing my need for it, opened a door to the Defense Professor's office.

"Ah, you're all prepared, then?" Professor Lupin said. "I must say, that is an ingenious room."

"Wait, what are we learning?" Tracey asked, confused. Professor Lupin stood, and walked purposefully into the Room of Requirement.

"Some of you had bad reactions to the Dementors on the train," he said. "And others... well, if you did not react poorly, that was only because, if you'll pardon my sanctimoniousness, because of a lack of truly horrible life experiences." Blaise nodded, face a little paler than it had been a moment before. I didn't know what he'd seen when the Dementor had come into our compartment, but whatever it was, it was on par with my own visions, as well as Luna's. Only Ginny and Potter had worse reactions - Potter because of his connection to the Dark Lord, presumably, and Ginny because she'd spent some time possessed the previous year by said Dark Lord.

"To combat that, we're going to try to learn what is, unfortunately, a N.E.W.T.-level defense charm. I don't expect you all to have complete success by the end of the year, but it's good discipline and a worthy project, regardless," Professor Lupin added. "To demonstrate... _EXPECTO PATRONUM_!"

A brilliant blue-white light shot from the end of his wand, resolving itself into a dancing, capering wolf. No werewolf this, the canine form loped around the room almost like a dog, tongue lolling out and clearly happy. Even Professor Lupin looked surprised at it.

"Honestly, I haven't been able to form a corporeal patronus since... well, since your parents were killed, Harry," the professor said. "I hadn't many happy memories in the years between then and now. Thank you all for helping me form some new ones." He called the patronus over to him like a pet, smiling a weary smiled. "That's enough now, Moon Moon," he said, and the ghostly dog faded from view.

"So!" he added. "That's the Patronus charm. As you have either seen or can guess, it drives Dementors back, and will also repel the Lethifold, about which you'll learn later in my class this year. Or next year, I suppose," he said, addressing Luna and Ginny. "It's really a third-year item. But the core of it, is to come up with a happy memory - because it's that memory that will power your patronus. So that's your homework this week: everyone come up with a memory they can use. Make it something truly happy - I warn you, little things like your first broom, or a particularly good meal, are unlikely to power a patronus." With that, he walked out, back to his office, and the Room of Requirement closed its door behind him.

"Okay, I admit, that was almost as cool as the animagus thing," Tracey said. "But we'll renegotiate later."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Damn it, Moon Moon. Stop being Remus' patronus.

Again, suggested patronus forms and animagus forms (as well as guesses as to who will eventually be an animagus, because not everybody will be), are welcome in reviews. If you're right, I'll say so in the author's notes. If I had something else in mind and I use yours instead because's it's cooler, I'll likewise credit you.


	14. Finding a Memory

If you're wondering how they eat and breath, and other science facts, just repeat to yourself: "It's J.K. Rowling's. I should really just relax."

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><p><strong>Chapter 12: Finding a Memory<strong>

_**In which Draco seeks to find a single, solitary memory strong enough to power a Patronus Charm, to limited avail.**_

"_87. If the thought of something makes me giggle for longer than 15 seconds, I am to assume that I am not allowed to do it."_

— 213 Things Skippy Is No Longer Allowed to Do in the U.S. Army

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><p>It's amazing how difficult it can be to find a quiet spot in the castle on a Friday evening, especially given my newfound awareness that mildly-frightening Miles Bletchley and the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team were the only things standing between me and a beating at best — and very possibly worse.<p>

The week since Professor Lupin announced he would teach us all the Patronus charm had passed in a bit of a blur, and I didn't have much luck in finding a happy memory in my free time — of which I had little. Between the three feet of parchment on the healing properties of Valerian root for Herbology, an afternoon dodging Nifflers in Hagrid's class, Quidditch practice, and my _actual_ Defense Against the Dark Arts homework (learn dark three creatures one might encounter in the Forbidden Forest, the Ministry's instructed method for confrontation, and what _you_ would do if confronted with one), I hadn't had a spare moment to myself all week.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself as I finished my Defense notes early Friday night.

"Acromantula," I recalled. "Ministry suggests the shield charm and blasting hexes. I suggest summoning a broom and flying _out _of the bloody forest." I double-checked the next bullet. "Werewolf. Ministry suggests a silver blade. I suggest _not being in the bloody forest on a full moon_." I chuckled as I wrote the last one down. "Wraith-Possessed Defense Professor. Ministry has no suggestion. I suggest baiting it with the Philosopher's Stone and leading it to its own doom, trapped forever within a mirror." Let Professor Lupin mark me down for that one — it _had_ actually worked.

Done with my homework, I had the creeping realization that I had a good four hours before curfew to call my own, and I couldn't put off searching for a memory any longer. I went in search of a quiet, out-of-the-way place in the castle to think, and despite looking over my shoulder for Slytherins on the wrong side of the war, my biggest problem finding a quiet spot was older students paired off for snagging sessions in broom closets. Clearly, that was not an option, and from what I remembered from _being_ one of those older students — a flash of an older Pansy's face, which I quickly fought down as unhelpful — the Astronomy tower was equally pointless.

I tried the Room of Requirement, but someone was in it. I wasn't sure who, but the doors wouldn't appear to me, so I was well aware it was occupied. Outside the castle walls was a bad idea. It might be nice enough in early evening in mid-October, but if I knew Scotland at all, it was going to get cold fast once the sun was fully down.

On the fourth floor, looking out west over the great hall, I found a room. It looked to have once been a classroom, but the dust on the lectern at the front told me it had been long unused for that purpose. It was wide, flat, and airy — in this part of the castle, the ceiling was more part of the roof than the rest of the fourth floor — and over the hall, an enormous stained glass window looked out at the sunset over the mountains. It would be cold, as it was somewhat drafty, but a fireplace on either side of the room looked serviceable at least. It fit my needs perfectly, except for one small problem: Albus Dumbledore was standing in it, his back to me, facing out at the sunset.

"Good evening, Mr. Malfoy," he said, not turning toward me. "Beautiful, isn't it?" I walked into the room carefully, hand on my wand, but I realized a thirteen-year-old Draco would have nothing to fear from the headmaster outside of academic and general disciplinary issues.

"Good evening, Headmaster Dumbledore," I said, remembering my manners and clamping down so very, very hard on my thoughts with Occlumency that I immediately felt the beginnings of a headache. "It's, um, Mr. Black at the moment. I was informed in no uncertain terms that I have no right to the other name. Thankfully, Professor Black was willing to lend me his." Dumbledore turned then, a slight smile on his face and that frustrating twinkle in his eye.

"Did he indeed?" the headmaster said. "Alas, that such petty issues of names and misplaced pride should be visited upon students — and yet, how fortunate that in your loss of family, you have made a connection with other family that had previously been lost to you. What is it the Muggles say? 'When one door closes, another opens'? Would that such misfortunes as yours always worked out as well as this one has for you."

I tried to read the meaning in his words, assuming he was being cryptic — either offering advice, or perhaps criticism. But after a moment I realized he was attempting to be grandfatherly, projecting the image of the wise, kind old headmaster who genuinely cared for his students. Perhaps it was even true, but I still could not afford to let my guard down around him.

"I've been lucky," I admitted, and heard the headmaster chuckle slightly. He'd turned back to watching the sun set.

"Lucky?" he said. "No, Mr. Black, I should say you've worked hard to overcome the trials and tribulations with which you have found yourself faced. An ambition worthy of Slytherin house… or perhaps, courage worthy of Gryffindor or effort worthy of Hufflepuff. Our houses are not so different that a great many of us would fit elsewhere. I myself was very nearly sorted to Ravenclaw, though in the end my noble streak won out over my curiosity." I coughed politely.

"I think the Hufflepuffs might disagree with you, sir," I said. "I'm not terribly popular in that house at present." Surprisingly, the headmaster chuckled.

"Yes, your _faux pas_ on the Express first year," he said. "Miss Parkinson did not deserve your ire, of course, but two years later I believe you already know that." I nodded. "As you grow into adulthood, Mr. Black, you will come to find that there is none of us who does not carry a regret around. If we are lucky, then they are regrets such as yours — for things done poorly, from which you have learned and the consequences of which can still be mitigated — but all too often, we regret not the things we've done but those we did not do."

"Or those we didn't realize in time to fix," I followed his train of thought, and the headmaster seemed to shrink into himself a bit.

"Yes, precisely," Dumbledore said, softly and sad. "Though if we are willing, we can learn from even those." There was a silence for some moments, as the sun dipped behind the mountains completely, and the headmaster turned away from the window. "I believe I have kept this admirable room from you long enough. You looked to be searching for somewhere to be alone with your thoughts, and I have burdened you with mine long enough. But it will be cold here soon," he mused, and without a word send flame rushing to light both fires. "Be sure that you put them out when you are done," the headmaster said. "Good night, Mr. Black."

"Good night, headmaster," I said as he breezed out of the room. I realized he had not even intruded on my thoughts with legilimency, but then again I had given him nothing to suspect me of save, perhaps, a plan to be out after curfew. "_Colloportus,_" I added, locking the door behind him. It would not do for my thoughts to be interrupted by a sixth- or seventh-year Slytherin with violence on their mind, or worse — some other upperclassman searching for a place to snog.

As darkness fell outside like a hippogryff with its wings cut, I sat down in the center of the room, facing one of the fires. It _was_ cold, but I was able to move a few feet closer before it became uncomfortably hot, and I didn't need the distraction of any distinct temperature. I crossed my legs, focused on the fire in front of me. It danced and cavorted like a living thing, never leaving its boundaries, and I could find no meaning in it except that it was beautiful. I concentrated on it, closed my eyes, and let the memory of flames dance behind them.

I imagined myself sitting in front of the fire, still in its fireplace, but I was no longer in a drafty room at Hogwarts but on a sandy beach. I remembered it well: a summer on the Mediterranean, somewhere near Marseilles. I was eight, my hair not yet locked in that potion-driven helmet I'd been stuck with the first two years of Hogwarts, and I saw myself sitting across the fire from me. I was smiling, a secret little smile that spoke of satisfaction and honest pride, not the sneering arrogance I would develop just a few short years later. I saw my father sitting in his high-backed beach chair, waving his wand with casual elegance to make small creatures dance in the flames. A dusty Dark Arts tome sat closed on his legs, but he was enjoying our company for once, instead of his never-ending struggle for more power. My mother sat across from him, on a log, fastidiously cleaned of sand and dry as bone, elegance in her every action even as she ate some gooey confection made from marshmallow, chocolate and biscuit. It was a single moment, one moment where everyone was happy.

I followed the memory back earlier in the day. We'd been on the beach all day, father and mother under an umbrella, myself barely avoiding burning in the sun. I'd built a sand castle — a simple thing, really, but I'd worked hard on it for an hour — and showed it to my father. He'd taken one look at it, looked it over long and hard, and pronounced it adequate: a palace worthy of a Malfoy. "Well done, Draco," he'd said, and meant it, before he went back to his book. I'd smiled all afternoon. I was still smiling that night, when we sat around the fire on the beach, lit by _incendio_, and just enjoyed each other's company.

In my mind, I conjured up another box. It sat next to the box in which I'd thrown words like Mudblood, Blood traitor, and half-breed. I called this box "Memories I Don't Need." And in that box, I placed the following day. Because while that night might be my happiest memory, it was still tinged with sadness because of the following day.

We'd been on the beach again. My mother had a seashell, enchanted with hours of soothing music at a low volume, and she had allowed herself to lay out on the beach on a towel enchanted to repel sand, listening to the music and sleeping the day away. I imagine it was very relaxing, but as I was eight and under strict orders not to bother her while she relaxed, I was not a fan at the time.

My father, meanwhile, sat again in his high-backed chair, reading his thick Dark Arts tome, and ignoring all around him. I did not bother him. By now, I knew better. He would not yell, nor strike me. Such things were beneath him. But he would turn his disappointed gaze upon me, and my world would come crashing to an end with the weight of his displeasure, with the knowledge that I had failed him. It was, to an eight-year-old, the worst sort of punishment.

So I built another sand castle. It was more elaborate than the previous day's, and I worked the design of Malfoy Manor into the castle. It would have impressed me at 20; now that I looked back at it, it _did_. For an eight-year-old, it was nothing short of amazing. And it was all done with a metal spade and various pieces of driftwood, because plastic Muggle sand-moulding tools were not something a Malfoy used.

When I got my father's attention, he grunted in acknowledgement of the castle's existence, and went immediately back to his reading. Clearly I had not done well enough to impress him. I tore down the building and started again. This time, it was more elaborate. I recalled a trip to London in which we'd marveled at the various palaces and museums the Muggles had built — or, as my father had said at the time, which wizards had built and Muggles stolen from their rightful rulers many centuries ago. With such magnificent buildings in mind, I began from the ground up to create a castle worthy of a Malfoy.

There — that corner was modeled after Balmoral. Here, a tower from _the_ Tower. Malfoy Manor again in the tops of this wall or that one. A wide sand lake, with a small ship on it, driftwood for masts and kelp for rigging. Turrets and crenelations, a master architect's life's work in miniature: a masterpiece of sand. Had I not become a wizard, I could have pursued a future in building design, and I knew it in that moment. The castle was perfect.

I attempted to get Lucius' attention again, and he barely looked up, nodded, and went back to a chapter on controlling small countries with judicious application of the Cruciatus Curse when the country was too bribe-proof and could detect the Imperius Curse. All academic, I'm sure. Then again, he did buy a lot of land in South America when I was ten. But at eight, I could see nothing except that my castle, my masterpiece, was not good enough for my father's approval.

Rage flowed through me. I stomped all over my creation, reducing it to dust, fighting back tears but determined to make my father proud of me. I felt accidental magic radiating out from me, and I panicked, checking around the beach in case Muggles were watching. We were the only family for miles, and I let it wash out of me, over the ruined sand where my castle had been.

What rose up was taller than I was. Unlike my first castle, which had been merely well-crafted, or my second, which was exceptionally so, this castle was perfect, crafted not through imperfect hands but straight from my memory through magic. I had only seen Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry once, when my father took me there on an errand for the Board of Governors, but even then my memory was excellent.

From Ravenclaw Tower at its height down to the Black Lake itself, the castle was perfectly replicated to scale… and it was alive. The sands of the lake rippled as if a wind were driving them. A waving tentacle — the Giant Squid, I realized later — poked out from them. Near the thousand sand trees, Hagrid's hut had a tiny boar hound running in circles. The Quidditch pitch had fourteen sandy players tossing little sand balls around as they flew on tiny sand brooms. A sandy figure I recognized as my godfather walked across the courtyard, next to a sandy witch in a pointed hat — McGonagall. And it kept up, powered by my outpouring of magic.

"Father, look!" I said, immensely proud. And Lucius looked at me with a glare, with that face of utter disappointment and annoyance.

"Can you not see I am busy, Draco? This is very important. Do not bother me right now." He didn't see the castle, only a small boy, of little use to him. The sand Hogwarts crumbled into dust as my magic failed: an apocalypse of falling sand that wiped out Quidditch players, castle, and my hopes and dreams all at once. I began to cry, and my father's glare intensified.

"Lock that up, Draco. It is disgraceful; a sign of weakness. A Malfoy shows no such signs of weakness, even when you have reason for grief — and you do not right now. So help me, however, if you do not wipe away those tears, I will give you reason for grief." Through that, my mother slept on, oblivious to my father's words, to my tiny world-shattering event, to everything. That was the day I became who I was, in the first timeline, and had informed my actions ever since. Everything for the family. No signs of weakness. I had not cried again until Potter caught me in Myrtle's bathroom our sixth year.

Back at the real Hogwarts, I allowed myself to cry for only a moment or two. Then I took the sadness and locked it away. I did not need my father's approval now. "Regrets such as mine," I paraphrased the headmaster, "From which lessons can be learned." I put away the sadness and regret: I could deal with their consequences later, and learn from them now. I focused only on the joy of the fire the night before, of the smile on my face at my father's pride in me, at my mother's elegantly eating a messy confection. I had truly been happy, and the box in which I stored the negative feelings associated with it was proof, I hoped, against any dementor.

_"Expecto Patronum,"_ I said, holding my wand out in front of me. Even with an adult's experience, I didn't expect much to happen. Certainly not a corporeal Patronus. What I got, however, was a good start: a slight bit of silver mist, pushing out from my wand. With practice, I might actually be able to do something with this charm.

_That_ thought filled me with more warmth than both fires together, and I wiped the remaining tears from my eyes and continued to practice until just before curfew. Then, watching over my shoulder for any remaining Slytherin assassins, I put out the fires with _aguamenti_ and made my way back toward the common room.


End file.
